


A Portrait of the Mechanic as a Young Girl

by shellebelle



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-25
Updated: 2011-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellebelle/pseuds/shellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Wiress grew up and won her Games. Revised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. School is a Wonderful Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is all my friend Stu's fault and I love her for it.
> 
> Wiress ate my brain, and this is the result. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

 _How did I get here?_   
As I turn, facing all of my peers and teachers at the reaping, I can't help but feel disbelief. Sure, I have been preparing myself for this eventuality, but I still can't believe I'm up here. That I'll go    
_there._   
To the Hunger Games. 

I can feel myself starting to panic, but I close my eyes and recite the things that I know about myself in my head: _My name is Wiress Mihos. I am fourteen years old and I am in the Mechanical Engineering Program in the District 3 school. My father is insane. My mother has disappeared. I'm a genius and a Mechanic and an Inventor. And now, I'm the newest Tribute for District 3._

Somehow, a blunt retelling of the facts is most helpful in calming myself down...

When I was younger, I loved school. I'm sure a lot of kids would say that, but for me, school was a haven. It meant everything to me. _Everything._

School time meant that I could get away from the basement that I lived in. It meant that for one meal, I wouldn't have to eat rodents and cockroaches and whatever edible something my father managed to scrounge up from the garbage. It meant that the mothers in the building would take care of me during the week, give me somewhere to sleep that didn't stink of garbage, get me away from my crazy father. Someplace quiet where I could do my homework.

I'd actually get clean clothes once a week, too. And a bath.

In school, I was on the track for mechanical engineering, where they challenged my brain and let me use it, on anything, _everything_. Even if I was only seven, one of the youngest they'd ever had in that program...they listened to me, to my ideas. I was _contributing_.

I made people laugh, too. They mostly liked me. School was the best place ever.

It hadn't always been bad with my father. It had been just us two for a long time. I didn't remember my mother, for she went away when I was very young. Father had been a fairly happy person once. He taught me nursery rhymes, a lot of them. He had a steady job back then in a factory. We lived on the third floor of our building, and there were lots of the mothers who helped my father take care of me, so I wouldn't have to go to a Community House.

And then, when I was around five, he began to fall apart. He started to sleep in and to stay up late. He forgot to go to work. He started to behave very strangely. And our economic situation began to take a downturn.

My father would talk about things, terrifying things. He began to feel as if people were watching him, conspiring against him. Sometimes he would speak to invisible people. But he didn't scare me. He was my father.

When you're poor in District 3, you just start moving down, the less money you make, the lower down in the building you move. We began to move, every few months, down and down. The air was worse the lower you went, the water was worse, the living situation was worse. We just kept getting notifications to move our residence every few months, as Dad sold off our possessions. And then, shortly after I turned five, we finally landed where we'd stay till I was thirteen: the basement. After that, he did odd jobs, tinkered, but mostly, he was unemployed.

It wasn't entirely his fault, of course. People talked, and didn't much care if I were listening or not, and they didn't mince words. They usually used words like "insane" and "dead battery" to refer to him, and I guess he was. He'd start out every few months, feeling reformed, and head off to work in a factory. For a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, he'd be okay...and then it would start. He'd start talking about cracks in his head, and people with no faces and the noise in his head, the voices. And he'd stop showing up for work. Then, of course, they'd fire him.

And it would be an anxious time for me, worrying about going to a Community House, because no one wanted to go to a Community House, and especially not if you were a girl. So we lived in the basement, where people threw their garbage, and we lived on their leavings, not that there were many. I trapped and cooked rats and mice. Cockroaches were good too if you knew how to cook them.

The women who had helped my father before continued to help him, and me, though they couldn't give him a place to live, they sometimes let me sleep in their apartments, let me eat with them when they could, and I played with their children.

And they made sure that when I turned five, I went to school.

I wasn't the most popular girl in school, though I was _liked,_ but it wasn't quite the same. I wasn't pretty. I had long, dark hair that never _quite_ got clean enough, clothes that were mostly thread and patches, and bad skin from eating mostly garbage and vermin. I was skinny and homely with a persistent wheezing cough from living in the worst area possible. The only pretty thing about me was my teeth. Dad said once that I inherited the good teeth from Mom. It was the only time he'd ever talked about her without crying.

Kids at school could be mean, of course, and I often got called names. The one that hurt the most was "rat face". I still think of myself like that sometimes. Boys mostly called me that. Most of the girls didn't look so different than me, so they didn't care much.

But mostly, people liked me anyway, because I made them laugh. To be honest, it never took much. Perhaps just letting loose a spring during a quiet moment. Or saying something snarky at the right time. My teachers put up with it, mostly because I was one of the top students in the school, and because most of the time, I was courteous and kind. District Three was a bleak place to live, though we don't know any different, anyway. There are hardly any plants, no flowers, no trees, though we know they're out there...we see pictures in books. But for us, it was just factories, miles of factories, and tall tenements to live in, and a sky that was always dreary and grey, and smelled of stale machine oil and smoke.

So maybe I was the bright spot in someone's dreary day.

The day I was picked for the Mechanical Engineering Program was one of the best days of my life. I was newly seven years old, just heading into school on the first day when my teacher caught me. He brought me into a room where several of the teachers, teachers for older students, ones I didn't know, were sitting, and one man in very fine clothes, who was holding a clipboard of some sort and looking very official.

They stood me at a workbench, and there were machine parts all over it, machine parts and tools, and they told me, "We want you to build a working motor from these parts. Work as quickly as possible, but take all the time you need."

I looked over the items on the table. This wasn't a kit. This was a hodge-podge of weird parts and magnets and wire. And so I worked quickly to organize my space, setting the tools where I wanted them and organizing the parts as best I could, and then they started the timer. It was an exhilarating exercise, and one I threw myself wholly into. I knew how to construct a simple motor; in Three you learned that from when you were very small, but the parts would not make anything _simple_.

But from the moment I saw the parts, I knew how they could fit together, and for the most part, I was right. I bent over the workbench, working as quickly as my fingers could, fitting parts to magnets to wire. Though I was quick, I was also careful, discarding errors as soon as I could tell they were wrong.

In twenty minutes, they were able to plug in my motor, and hear its quiet hum. It was a proud moment for me. I wasn't sure why they were having me do it at the time, but I had loved the challenge.

The man with the clipboard was writing a mile-a-minute. Finally, he stood up and said, "She should be in the Mechanical Engineering track _immediately.”_ _Then he_ stood in front of me, and patted my head. "Good luck to you, Wiress. We in the Capitol will be expecting great things from you." And with that, he left, and my teachers were congratulating me.

My eyes widened. It was the first time I'd ever been spoken to by anyone from the Capitol.

 


	2. A Form of Training

Dad's reaction to this news was...interesting. He went out and got a job. We moved up a floor.

And then moved back down in a few months, but I could tell he really felt badly about it this time. He cried for a week, and not just because the voices were tormenting him.

But I worked very hard. I excelled, if I do say so...enough of my teachers did. The other kids in the class called me "Little Motorhead," since I was the youngest in the class. It was a nice time. I was made to feel important. Like I had something to contribute to society. I might not be pretty but my brain was valuable. _I_ was valuable.

During the weekdays, I usually went upstairs to my friend Geiger's tenement. His mom had been taking care of me since I was little and now she decided to take over much of my bringing up, though of course, she had help. Geiger never called me 'that rat-faced girl' and we were best of friends, even if he wasn't as smart as I was. He didn't hold that against me, and I didn't hold that against him. We were more like siblings, really, than friends. If any of the boys started to get too rough, he would always defend me. When he needed help with math, I helped him. We fought and played like siblings.

With all of this going for me, even living in the middle of garbage wasn't so bad. I was never very demanding. I was being listened to, and I had good friends and an extended family unit beyond my father that cared about me.

But there was still something looming over me, and when I was ten, I seriously started to think about it.

The Hunger Games.

Most of my friends at school preferred not to talk about it, or think about it. But my friends, or the older brothers or sisters of friends, just kept dying. They went away, and then they died. Most Threes did. They died quickly, too. Within two or three days. Except for one boy, a few years ago when I was about five or six, who became our Victor.

But most of us, we figured we didn't stand a chance, not against the kids from more 'physical' districts; not against the Careers.

But somehow, I thought, that had to change. I was going to have to take out tesserae soon. I needed more food than what Father and I could scrounge up, I needed more, and better. I was beginning to fade in class halfway through the morning from hunger. And I'd fainted more times than I could count. The teachers brought me what they could, but it was embarrassing. And I may not possess anything but my pride, but I did have that.

But taking out the tesserae meant that my name would be entered multiple times each year, and I'd have a higher chance of going to the Games. And why bother to be educated, why bother to work so hard, if it was all just going to _end_? When I was twelve, thirteen, fourteen...when I hadn't even _done_ anything yet? I didn't want to be wasted. I knew I had things to contribute, a life to live. Things to do.

So that year, my tenth year, I watched every moment of the Hunger Games. I paid attention to everything. I wanted to live. No different than anyone else, I suppose, but I had to find something I could use, since we weren't permitted to train for the Games in Three.

It was a little known fact that I have possibly the best eyesight in District Three—maybe the best eyesight in several districts. So I studied the television. I took note of patterns. Tiny little details that most people would miss, I could see. I wrote notes, but only afterward, in private. Writing is how I process information. I observed the different tributes, what they did, what they didn't do, how quickly they died.

I saw one of my friend's sisters die in the Cornucopia bloodbath. Her counterpart, a boy of about twelve, died shortly thereafter. Still, I watched very closely, even if it did make me want to cry for the rest of my life. I knew I had to. I knew it could mean the difference between life and death.

When the Victors came around on their tour, I watched them. Tried to connect who they were with how they won. Most of them never seemed, onstage, to be the same people who were crowned Victor on the broadcasts. They often looked bewildered. Tired. Confused. Lost.

And then I thought about our Victor.

He was smart, but it wasn't necessarily because of that. Someone in the program I was in for mechanical engineering went to the Games last year...and died within three days. But he was trying to be something he wasn't: a warrior. He was trying to be like the tributes from 1 and 2, raised for the Games, trained from a young age. But in reality, he was just a kid from 3, starved, overworked, scrawny like the rest of us.

Beetee won because he didn't try to be anything other than what he was: an electronic genius. And because he concentrated on surviving. And yes...there was luck in there. He won with his brain and will.

If I had to be a tribute, the only way I was going to win would be with my brain and will. And by using every ability I could find in myself.

Of course, there was no guarantee I was going to the Games. It could pass me by. But I could just as easily go when I turned twelve, too. I'd always felt it was best to be prepared for anything.

And so when I turned twelve, I went to the Justice Building and took out tesserae. Father didn't really want me to. But he also couldn't stop me and his attempts at getting employment to prevent that weren't very diligent.

I think being fired that last time did it for him. He just didn't want to try anymore. It's hard to have respect for a man who doesn't even try, but I justified it by reminding myself that he was sick in the head. With something I didn't, and couldn't, understand. Even if I wanted to understand, it was nearly impossible to get the sort of information I'd need to help him. And doctors? Who could afford doctors?

My first Reaping Day was nerve-wracking. I understand that most people prepare for it specially, making special bits of food and such. Dressing nicely. I didn't. I couldn't. Anything special was out of the question, but I did make sure to be very clean, to braid my hair as nicely as possible. I remember standing with lots of my classmates. Everyone nervous, everyone silent, trembling. The girl crammed in next to me, a girl I'd never seen before, reached out and grabbed my hand just as the names were announced. I squeezed it in return, just happy for some sort of human contact in the midst of all these people.

The names were called. But not mine. At least not that year.

After that Reaping Day, I was, if anything, even more invested in the Games. Even if I hadn't been picked, I really knew the tributes, now...they were my peers. My friends. I wished for them to stay alive. I hoped. But they didn't. It was awful, being with the families. The girl tribute had lived in my building. When the Careers killed her, I could hear her mother's wail from three stories down.

It was even worse when the two caskets came back.

My name wasn't called when I was thirteen, either. Again, I heard the wailing when the Threes, inevitably, died. Again, the funerals, with the caskets and the Victor tour.

Dad didn't talk much during the Games. He watched in the square with lots of other people. It's sometimes better to watch with a crowd.

After that, he tried to get a job again.

They wouldn't even hire him, this time. So he started stealing. I ignored it and took out more tesserae.

My notes on the Hunger Games grew and grew, even between games. My curiosity had been piqued by the Games broadcasts, and now I was ravenous for information. Each time there was a new government broadcast, I was glued to the screen. Every time there was a re-run of a previous Games, I was right there. There was _so much_ information to be had if you just knew where to look. At night, I'd write and collate my notes, think about them long and hard, and then work on stuff for school. I didn't sleep much.

There's a reason caffeine is very popular in Three.

My thirteenth year was a banner year for me. I made several machines that won design awards. Two of them won patents with the Capitol. I got money for that, and for a few months, we were able to move out of the basement to the first floor. Buy decent food. There was a little resentment on my father's part. We fought about it on occasion. There were tears on my part. None on his.

I loved him, but I didn't understand him. Not for the first time, I wondered what happened to my mother. I'd ask, he'd get angry. Dad was scary when he was angry. I stopped asking.

I turned fourteen. Another Reaping.

And the first name called was mine.

 


	3. Traveling

And so...here I am. I've been preparing for the eventuality of this since I was ten, but still, it's a shock to hear my name actually _called._ I make the walk to the platform, stand facing the whole of District Three. I'm not sure what I feel right now. I am merely existing in the moment. And the boy tribute's name is Geiger's. I know my surprise shows on my face.

Two people who know each other wouldn't be so strange. But two people from the same _building_? Not for the first time, I wonder how much chance actually figures into the selection of the two tributes. But there is nothing at all we can do about it. Time is not on our side. It never is.

They bring me into a room in the Justice Building, let me sit, waiting. Waiting for people to visit me. To say good-bye. You assume you're never going to see the other person again. In 3, it's generally a good bet.

Dad is first. He looks drunk and half-crazed but that's just the way he looks. His brown hair is standing almost on end and his beard is ragged. If you didn't know him, he'd be frightening.

He gives me a ring made of a length of wire, that he'd obviously fashioned himself. It's the only gift he's ever given me. "Always look twice," he tells me. His favorite saying. It's gotten me out of trouble more times than I can count. His face is unreadable, eyes empty, looking inward, inward.

"I'll do my best," I say, my voice soft and steady. And then he kisses my forehead and is gone.

A couple of the upstairs neighbor women who take care of me come to see me too, which is very kind of them. They aren't overly sentimental, which is good because I've decided that I will do my best not to cry. But they hug and kiss me, and say good-bye, and then I am herded onto the train.

The train is so beautiful. I've never seen woodwork of any sort before, and all of the trim around the doors and the windows are this beautiful warm color of wood. I can't stop touching it. I have my own compartment, all to myself, clean and lovely. A bathroom and everything. I've never actually had a bathroom before. The best I've ever been able to do is a hip bath at an upstairs neighbor's. I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Even though I dressed my best for the Reaping, I still look like 'the dog's dinner', whatever that's supposed be. I don't know what it is, but I know what it _means_ : I look awful. My skin is sallow and peaky and my eyes are ringed with weariness—the regular old weariness of District 3. _You don't look like a Victor_ , I think suddenly, and the thought frightens me. It's the first time I've ever voiced doubt to myself. It has to be the last.

I find clothes in the drawers, the likes of which I've never even seen before, not even on the Mayor of the district. They're whole and fine, and I wonder if they'll fit. The clothes I'm wearing have been through at least four other children and I'm a small girl.

The shower is lovely. So warm...and it's difficult to get _quite_ warm enough in Three. The hot water loosens all of my muscles and I scrub my head _hard_ with the shampoo. I've never had a good enough shampooing. My hair is dark and thick and tends towards being stringy. It feels nice to wash it. I scrub everything. Even my teeth.

I'm so relaxed...and I almost crawl into the bed for a nap. But I'm also hungry, and dinner is soon... Suddenly, my eyes widen with realization.

I am going to meet Beetee.

Of course. He was present at the Reaping, but I was too wrapped up in what was happening to notice. He is District 3's only living Victor.

Now, I don't have heroes. Heroes are just people who get put on a pedestal and stop being human. But I admire Beetee. And I find that I want his respect, not just as a tribute, though that would make things easier. I want him to look at me and see that I have a chance. To believe in me. So I make myself neat, and presentable. I dress entirely in black because I have no idea what colors look good on me. I've never had a choice before.

The dining car is amazing, beautiful, like everything else on the train. I notice then that there are recording devices everywhere. I wonder if everyone can see them, since there were so very many. But I turn my attention to the table, which is piled with more food than I've ever seen in my life. You can see through the glasses and everything just _sparkles_ like nothing I've ever seen before.

For a girl who was raised on and in garbage, I do like to see pretty, clean things.

Beetee and our escort aren't here yet, but Geiger is. He's seventeen years old now, and definitely looks the part of the Victor ten times more than I ever could. He is on the scrawny side like everyone else in the district but he's attractive, and not just on the outside. He is a genuinely kind person. I like him tremendously, and would even if we hadn't practically been raised together.

"Hey, Wiress," he says, and he looks distinctly green.

"Hey. How'd your mom hold up?" I feel bad for his mom...he's the oldest, and if he dies, it'll crush her.

"Better than I thought," he says, with a shaky grin. "She's gotta be, got three more of us at home."

I grin back at him. It's kind of nice just having him here, but I wish he wasn't here at the same time. Not just because his mother would be crushed if he died, but because I love him. We're like siblings, best friends. I hate that he's here.

Just then, the Escort and Beetee, our Mentor, come into the room and sit with us. Beetee is younger than I thought he'd be, for some reason, and he has thick glasses that don't seem to fit him well. He has the same tired look that all District Threes have. And something in his dark eyes that might speak to what he's had to go through to become a Victor.

He introduces himself. His voice is quiet and intelligent, and sounds a little...creaky, as if he doesn't talk to a lot of people. He's methodical as he asks us questions. It's all I can do not to monopolize his time. There's so many questions I want to ask, and not just about the Games.

But I desperately need to eat. I try not to gorge myself but it's difficult. Everything is so delicious. And so _clean!_

He starts by asking us about school. I'm dying to answer, but I let Geiger go first because, well...I don't want to seem as if I'm bragging. I'm kind of a shining star at school and I can't imagine who wouldn't know it. Unless it's Beetee. I don't know if he keeps tabs on the kids or not.

Geiger talks about how he's very good at assembling—and he is, he's faster than anyone I know at assembly—but he's modest about things. Though eventually, Beetee gets out of him that he's wiry, that he has good endurance and can lift and throw moderately heavy objects. Geiger is pleased with himself, and looks a bit less sick. And then he says, "But Wiress is the real star of school. She _invents_ things."

I look up from where I'm studying (and eating) a strawberry—they're so interesting, lovely, and delicious—with my eyes wide, to find Beetee looking at me in an appraising sort of way.

"Oh," I say. "Yes. Actually, I do. Just...little things."

"She's too modest. She's gotten patents from the Capitol for her work."

I turn a bit red. If there's a way to get me acting as if a man has just told me I'm beautiful, it's to compliment my work.

"Actually," Beetee says, "I do a fair bit of inventing myself. May I ask what your patents are for?" No, he really doesn't know. While he's genuinely curious, I can tell he's also a bit reluctant to ask...after all, he gets to know two new tributes a year...and then they're usually dead.

I explain to him about the water pump and the new kind of airbrush I'd patented. He asks me a couple of questions about them. I can tell his real expertise is in electronics, but what I'm doing is also intriguing him.

By the end of the evening, I think he might like me, a little, perhaps.

 


	4. Opening Ceremonies

 

And so...here I am. I've been preparing for the eventuality of this since I was ten, but still, it's a shock to hear my name actually _called._ I make the walk to the platform, stand facing the whole of District Three. I'm not sure what I feel right now. I am merely existing in the moment. And the boy tribute's name is Geiger's. I know my surprise shows on my face.

Two people who know each other wouldn't be so strange. But two people from the same _building_? Not for the first time, I wonder how much chance actually figures into the selection of the two tributes. But there is nothing at all we can do about it. Time is not on our side. It never is.

They bring me into a room in the Justice Building, let me sit, waiting. Waiting for people to visit me. To say good-bye. You assume you're never going to see the other person again. In 3, it's generally a good bet.

Dad is first. He looks drunk and half-crazed but that's just the way he looks. His brown hair is standing almost on end and his beard is ragged. If you didn't know him, he'd be frightening.

He gives me a ring made of a length of wire, that he'd obviously fashioned himself. It's the only gift he's ever given me. "Always look twice," he tells me. His favorite saying. It's gotten me out of trouble more times than I can count. His face is unreadable, eyes empty, looking inward, inward.

"I'll do my best," I say, my voice soft and steady. And then he kisses my forehead and is gone.

A couple of the upstairs neighbor women who take care of me come to see me too, which is very kind of them. They aren't overly sentimental, which is good because I've decided that I will do my best not to cry. But they hug and kiss me, and say good-bye, and then I am herded onto the train.

The train is so beautiful. I've never seen woodwork of any sort before, and all of the trim around the doors and the windows are this beautiful warm color of wood. I can't stop touching it. I have my own compartment, all to myself, clean and lovely. A bathroom and everything. I've never actually had a bathroom before. The best I've ever been able to do is a hip bath at an upstairs neighbor's. I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Even though I dressed my best for the Reaping, I still look like 'the dog's dinner', whatever that's supposed be. I don't know what it is, but I know what it _means_ : I look awful. My skin is sallow and peaky and my eyes are ringed with weariness—the regular old weariness of District 3. _You don't look like a Victor_ , I think suddenly, and the thought frightens me. It's the first time I've ever voiced doubt to myself. It has to be the last.

I find clothes in the drawers, the likes of which I've never even seen before, not even on the Mayor of the district. They're whole and fine, and I wonder if they'll fit. The clothes I'm wearing have been through at least four other children and I'm a small girl.

The shower is lovely. So warm...and it's difficult to get _quite_ warm enough in Three. The hot water loosens all of my muscles and I scrub my head _hard_ with the shampoo. I've never had a good enough shampooing. My hair is dark and thick and tends towards being stringy. It feels nice to wash it. I scrub everything. Even my teeth.

I'm so relaxed...and I almost crawl into the bed for a nap. But I'm also hungry, and dinner is soon... Suddenly, my eyes widen with realization.

I am going to meet Beetee.

Of course. He was present at the Reaping, but I was too wrapped up in what was happening to notice. He is District 3's only living Victor.

Now, I don't have heroes. Heroes are just people who get put on a pedestal and stop being human. But I admire Beetee. And I find that I want his respect, not just as a tribute, though that would make things easier. I want him to look at me and see that I have a chance. To believe in me. So I make myself neat, and presentable. I dress entirely in black because I have no idea what colors look good on me. I've never had a choice before.

The dining car is amazing, beautiful, like everything else on the train. I notice then that there are recording devices everywhere. I wonder if everyone can see them, since there were so very many. But I turn my attention to the table, which is piled with more food than I've ever seen in my life. You can see through the glasses and everything just _sparkles_ like nothing I've ever seen before.

For a girl who was raised on and in garbage, I do like to see pretty, clean things.

Beetee and our escort aren't here yet, but Geiger is. He's seventeen years old now, and definitely looks the part of the Victor ten times more than I ever could. He is on the scrawny side like everyone else in the district but he's attractive, and not just on the outside. He is a genuinely kind person. I like him tremendously, and would even if we hadn't practically been raised together.

"Hey, Wiress," he says, and he looks distinctly green.

"Hey. How'd your mom hold up?" I feel bad for his mom...he's the oldest, and if he dies, it'll crush her.

"Better than I thought," he says, with a shaky grin. "She's gotta be, got three more of us at home."

I grin back at him. It's kind of nice just having him here, but I wish he wasn't here at the same time. Not just because his mother would be crushed if he died, but because I love him. We're like siblings, best friends. I hate that he's here.

Just then, the Escort and Beetee, our Mentor, come into the room and sit with us. Beetee is younger than I thought he'd be, for some reason, and he has thick glasses that don't seem to fit him well. He has the same tired look that all District Threes have. And something in his dark eyes that might speak to what he's had to go through to become a Victor.

He introduces himself. His voice is quiet and intelligent, and sounds a little...creaky, as if he doesn't talk to a lot of people. He's methodical as he asks us questions. It's all I can do not to monopolize his time. There's so many questions I want to ask, and not just about the Games.

But I desperately need to eat. I try not to gorge myself but it's difficult. Everything is so delicious. And so _clean!_

He starts by asking us about school. I'm dying to answer, but I let Geiger go first because, well...I don't want to seem as if I'm bragging. I'm kind of a shining star at school and I can't imagine who wouldn't know it. Unless it's Beetee. I don't know if he keeps tabs on the kids or not.

Geiger talks about how he's very good at assembling—and he is, he's faster than anyone I know at assembly—but he's modest about things. Though eventually, Beetee gets out of him that he's wiry, that he has good endurance and can lift and throw moderately heavy objects. Geiger is pleased with himself, and looks a bit less sick. And then he says, "But Wiress is the real star of school. She _invents_ things."

I look up from where I'm studying (and eating) a strawberry—they're so interesting, lovely, and delicious—with my eyes wide, to find Beetee looking at me in an appraising sort of way.

"Oh," I say. "Yes. Actually, I do. Just...little things."

"She's too modest. She's gotten patents from the Capitol for her work."

I turn a bit red. If there's a way to get me acting as if a man has just told me I'm beautiful, it's to compliment my work.

"Actually," Beetee says, "I do a fair bit of inventing myself. May I ask what your patents are for?" No, he really doesn't know. While he's genuinely curious, I can tell he's also a bit reluctant to ask...after all, he gets to know two new tributes a year...and then they're usually dead.

I explain to him about the water pump and the new kind of airbrush I'd patented. He asks me a couple of questions about them. I can tell his real expertise is in electronics, but what I'm doing is also intriguing him.

By the end of the evening, I think he might like me, a little, perhaps.

 


	5. Training

Chapter 5: Training

 

Dinner that night is uneventful. I meet Geiger's stylist, a strange woman with bright yellow hair and very pale skin, who seems to be _flirting_ with him. Poor Geiger doesn't quite know how to take that. So I sit next to him and take his hand to watch the Opening Ceremonies. Watching ourselves on the television screen is strange. I'm not sure I know that girl up there, smiling and waving at people. If I come through this, I wonder how recognizable I'll be in the end.

 

The only real commotion is one of the servers dropping a tray and then being loudly reprimanded, just far enough away to be heard. I feel badly that someone has to get yelled at like that, even if I can't really hear what's being said.

 

That night, I go up to my room, and sink gratefully into the amazingly soft and comfortable bed. Despite everything that is bothering me, it isn't long before I'm fast asleep.

 

Sometime that night, I have a very vivid dream. It's as if someone is sitting on my bed, stroking my hair. The light is dim, and I can't see who it is, but I know the person, whoever it is, means me no harm. I make a soft sound, and the dream is gone and I'm waking up in the morning.

 

I can't shake the feeling that perhaps it isn't a dream.

 

The next day, I'm up early. It's a big day. Time to start training in earnest. There is so much to learn! If it weren't for something so dire, I'd enjoy it more. But I cram as much information as I can into my head. I've learned that sometimes information that seems useless really _isn't_ and there's nothing that I can discount as being useless. Not here.

 

Soon, I learn how to find edible plants and avoid poisonous ones, how to tie several sorts of knots, and that I have a real talent for knife throwing...well, at least my aim is good. I have to be within a decently close range, because I really have no strength in my arms. I'm working on that, though.

 

Geiger and I have decided not to train together, more by unspoken agreement than by any plan. I know that I'm going to go through this alone. I've never liked the idea of alliances when you know that they'll have to die in order for you to win. If I was going to ally with anyone, it would be with Geiger...

 

But I can't...I just can't. I'm praying to anything that's out there _not_ to have to kill him. Because I don't think I can. If it comes down to him and me? I'm going to end up killing myself if he won't do it. I can't do that to his mother. She's so sweet and sad and loving. And she took care of me. Killing Geiger would be like trying to kill my own sibling.

 

There's no one really, who would miss me. Just my father, and he's half-gone already. At least if it's just him, he won't have to worry about feeding me. My thoughts are so dark. I want someone to pull me out of them, but there's no one who can, really. Geiger's too scared, and who could blame him? Beetee's thoughts are just as dark as mine are. I see it in his eyes, on his face.

 

As the days progress, it's hard to stay cheerful. I'm so focused on work, and realizing what the work _means_ and I'm scared and tired and I've been crying entirely more than I thought I would. But, as I say, better here than in the arena.

 

At dinner the night before the private sessions with the Gamemakers, I'm quiet and thoughtful. I can tell both Geiger and Beetee are watching me in concern. I give them a small smile. “I'm all right.”

 

The Avox who is serving me is trembling when she sets my soup down in front of me. I try not to look at her so I won't get her in trouble. I can tell it's the same woman who dropped the tray the other night, I can tell that she's nervous about serving. Maybe she's new.

 

I see Beetee glance up, and his eyes widen slightly. And then he drops his gaze to his plate and exchanges a cautious glance with Rayan. My brow furrows. What is going on? I seem to have a blind spot somewhere, because I don't have a clue. And I _always_ know.

 

I look where Beetee looked, and I see the Avox who was serving us heading back into the kitchen. Something odd is happening here, and I don't know what it is. But I settle in to eat, because I've been training all day, and I'm starving. I notice that Geiger is eating as well, untroubled. I figure that if there is trouble, someone would tell us something. And I'm tired of worrying, so I stop and eat.

 

A bit later, Beetee talks to each of us privately over dessert about what we're going to do for the Gamemakers. I'm nervous as I explain what I plan on doing.

 

When he looks impressed with me, I feel a lot better. And then the Avox woman comes back to bring coffee, and I look up at her without thinking to thank her (even though I don't have to).

 

...it would be a cliché, and most untrue, to say that I look up into my own eyes. Her eyes are brown, and mine are green. But there is my mouth. My cheekbones. There is my hair, my thick, black, stringy hair, though hers is shot through with grey. Her hair seems the only thing that is aged, as her face is largely unlined, but for a few lines of sadness at the mouth, of weariness at the eyes. And I can see in her expression that she is as dismayed as I am that I'm here.

 

“I...” But no. I can't talk to her. I can't talk to her and she can't give me any answers because they _cut out her tongue_ and now I know, I know where she is but it gives me no comfort, and no answers.

 

It's all too much. I burst into tears (all the acknowledgment I can give her) and run from the room, locking myself in my room and weeping. But thinking, always thinking, because I can't stop, and pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged mutt.

 

There's no way they didn't know she was my mother. As soon as I showed up, as soon as they took my picture and signed me in, they _had_ to know. I always knew I resembled her, because everyone who'd known her said so. But I had not realized just _how much_ that was true.

 

How could they _not_ know? What do they want from me? My thoughts chase themselves around in a circle until finally, I sit down on the bed, with my arms wrapped around my legs. There's nothing I can do. There's nothing I can do but continue with my training, continue doing what I must.

 

I have no other choice. There's nothing at all I can do for her. And the thought of that is awful.

 

There's a soft knock at my door. “I'm all right,” I call out shakily. I'm not, but no one else has to know that...

 

“No, you're not.” It's Geiger. “Let me in.”

 

I sigh. “It's open.”

 

He walks in but doesn't say a word, just sits on the bed next to me and hugs me. I open my mouth to try and explain but he shushes me gently. “I don't know what that was. I don't want to know. But you can't worry about it now.”

 

I nod, and stay right where I am. I'm suddenly absolutely exhausted, and all I want to do is go to sleep and not think about anything, anything at all.

 

“You need to rest,” he says. “Tomorrow's a big day. Okay?”

 

“Okay.” It feels nice to be held. I've been so focused on everything I need to learn that I haven't been paying much attention to anything or anyone else. “Sorry.”

 

He shushes me again. “Don't worry about it. Get some sleep.” He holds me at arms length, then kisses my forehead.

 

I smile weakly at him. “Careful, or I might make you stay.”

 

He grins back. “Well, I need my sleep too. You'll be okay?”

 

“Yeah. I'm going to go to bed now. Thanks, Geiger. I...” But there's nothing more I should say, and I trail off. There will be precious few more days where we'll still be able to be friends.

 

“I know,” he says. “Good night, Wiress.”

 

After he leaves, I crawl into bed in my underwear. I'm asleep almost as soon as I close my eyes.

 

Some time later, I wake. For a moment, I think I'm dreaming again. Someone is sitting on my bed, and stroking my hair. But it hadn't been a dream then, and it isn't a dream now.

 

I open my mouth to say something, and my mother lays a finger on her lips for silence. I shouldn't talk to her. So I lie there, with my mother just stroking my hair, until I go to sleep again.

 

The next day, the only sign that anyone has been in the room is that my towels are fresh.

 

 

I'm glad I'm not District 12. They have to go last. At least I get it over with quickly, being from 3.

 

I look over the supplies provided me in the gymnasium, then set to work. It doesn't take very long to construct a small but deadly trap. It would be better with trees, I think, working with the natural flexibility of branches and wood. But for today, this will suffice.

 

I set it up, and then I don't do anything much with it for a time. I throw knives at targets. I tie knots.

 

And then I roll one of the stones across the trip-wire. The mechanism releases, and plunges a dagger right into a practice dummy's temple.

 

When I'm dismissed, I feel weird about it...not encouraged, not discouraged. Just weird. Not that I think about that feeling much. I just have an idea that exploring these feelings would be bad at this juncture. I have to be pragmatic about things. Not emotional.

 

Otherwise, how do I even have a chance at survival?

 

Geiger and I sit at a table with our stylists, our Escort and Beetee to watch our scores pop up. He gets a five, which I think is _great_ for someone from Three. And I get a six, and I'm _stunned_ at that, but pleased.

 

Though in the end, I think, our scores aren't what matters.

 

What matters is who's left standing...and what they have done to get there.

 

I'm starting to hope that if I die...I die early.

 

 


	6. Interview

And now it's time to prepare for the interviews the next day. Rayan actually spends some time with me, working on my posture. I'm usually huddled over motors and such, so naturally, I slouch. “Imagine a string running from the base of your spine to the top of your head, Wiress.” His posture is really good, and he trains me for a while with books and with a hand at my shoulders and waist.

 

Standing up straight tends to _hurt_ a little. But I can hold myself straight now, at least. I think it's added an inch to my height. I'll keep practicing. I want my stylist's clothing to hang right, and I want to look good...or at least, as good as I can look.

 

After lunch (where I steadfastly ignore the Avox _(my mother)_ waiting on me), there is a knock on my door. I know that it is Beetee's turn to prepare me for the interviews, so I open it. He gives me a worried little smile. “Come...let's go up to the roof. You haven't been up there yet, and the view is rather spectacular.”

 

I nod and follow him as we go up, our own stairway, our own portion of the roof. Of course we can't see the other tributes...it's important that the Gamemakers keep us apart. But it _is_ beautiful, the cloudy haze over the Capitol and the afternoon sun. It's very breezy up here. Noisy. There are wind-chimes, too.

 

Beetee stands beside me, his hands on the railing. “I'm very sorry, Wiress. It can't be an easy thing,” he says quietly. Just quietly enough to hear, not loudly enough to be overheard.

 

“It isn't,” I murmur back. “I...didn't know. I don't even remember her.” The sadness is thick on my tongue. He puts his left hand over mine on the railing. I notice that his fingers are slightly stiff on that hand, and I wonder if it's from an injury.

 

“Will you be able to put her behind you, concentrate on the Games?”

 

The sigh that escapes me trembles in the air. “Yes...there's nothing at all I can do.” I can't shake the feeling that this was all purposeful. Done to shatter me. To make me vulnerable. But for what purpose? I don't want to think about it. I need to concentrate on staying alive.

 

“Good,” he says gently. “Because you're the first in some years that I think could actually win.”

 

I catch my bottom lip between my teeth and close my eyes, then lean my head on his arm.

 

“So,” he says, a bit louder, “how do you feel about the interview? Are you nervous?”

 

I shrug, grinning a little. “Not really. When your father is regularly saying loud and obnoxious things that you have to smooth over lest you be sent to the Community House, it's important to have skill in talking.”

 

Beetee chuckles. “Yes, I suppose it would be. Remember, Wiress...just be yourself. That should be enough for anyone, in or out of the Capitol.”

 

Oh, no, talking isn't a problem, nor is lying, or charm. I'm perfectly confident in my personality and abilities.

 

It's my looks. I know that Angelus can do amazing things with my clothes and my hair—heaven knows, I have enough of it! But my face...

 

I may have been eating well for the past several days, but it hasn't taken the pinched look from my face. And I'm homely, not much I can do about that. But sometimes, just sometimes, I'd like to be _pretty._

 

Angelus, despite having known me for only a few days, can usually tell when I'm not feeling the best about myself, and today is no exception. As my prep team hovers around me, bringing me to Beauty Base One, he looks at me. “What's the matter, Miss Mihos? You look distinctly un-smug.”

 

I sigh and just make a circular motion over my face, and stick my tongue out, indicating how I feel about it today. He pats my cheek. “We _all_ have our ugly days, my dear.”

 

I look at him, and raise one eyebrow. He laughs at me, and I laugh too because of _course_ I'm being ridiculous and my looks are the last thing I should even be thinking about at this juncture. “Don't worry about it. You're charming and intelligent. Let us worry about your looks, which, I assure you, will be quite striking.”

 

Well, they've succeeded before...and I see no reason to doubt him. And my confidences are well-placed.

 

Angelus has decided to make a play on my name: I'm covered in wire, not electrical grade, of course, and jewels. And it's _amazing_. My gown is gray, but there's a mesh of fine silver wire over the whole thing, threaded with jewels in green and blue and red and orange. You'd think it would be stiff, but it isn't, it moves and shimmers with me when I walk. They weave my hair with green-tinted wire too, but you'd never know it because it's so soft over my shoulders. And my prep team seem quite enamored of sticking jewels and glitter on my pale skin.

 

As long as they're my styling team, I need never worry about not looking good.

 

Caesar Flickerman's hair this year is pale lavender. I can't decide whether I like it or not. But I'm not really nervous about the interview. He's a good interviewer. I've always been impressed by that.

 

He introduces me and I walk across the stage, standing straight (I can feel Rayan's relief from here) and poised. “Miss Mihos, now don't you look stunning tonight! Your stylist really has got a good eye.”

 

I simply _beam_ at him. “I have a wonderful prep team,” I say fondly, and then he gestures for me to sit. My feet don't _quite_ touch the floor, so I cross them primly at the ankles.

 

“Well, Wiress, you're something of a celebrity here in the Capitol with your inventions. Do you think that will offer you an in with some of the sponsors?”

 

As always, I flush with pleasure when I'm complimented on my work. “Well, sir, it certainly couldn't hurt!” This gets a laugh from the audience. It's even better because I wasn't even trying that time.

 

“No, it certainly couldn't. Everyone could use more friends, and I'd say you have a fair few friends here now. Now tell me: what is your favorite thing about being here at the Capitol?”

 

“Oh, meeting my style team, for certain. They're so very different than what I'm used to in Three and they've been so sweet to me. I know that I'll remember them always.”

 

“You talk as if you're certain to win.”

 

“I believe in thinking positively.” I grin at him. “The odds, as they say, are not precisely with me.”

 

“So, what do you think is your best asset in the Games, Wiress?”

 

“I have a brain and I know how to use it. And I'm determined. I'll get to where I want to be, one way or another, and the rest...is a secret,” I say playfully. It's easy to be playful, up here, in my unreal dress and makeup.

 

Caesar Flickerman smiles again. “Well, you seem as if you'd be hard to defeat, Wiress...and our time is up. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

 

Later, I have dinner with Geiger and Beetee and Rayan. I'm strangely quiet. I know what's coming and despite my outward confidence, inside, I'm not feeling all that confident. Beetee looks worried, scared for us. But then, he must have seen so many District 3 kids die, and from such a young age. Cet, our previous Victor, died not so long after he'd won his Games, and so Beetee had no one.

 

I eat what I can get down, carefully, chewing thoroughly and drinking water, and plenty of it. Despite all my preparations, despite everything I've done, I haven't a clue what to expect. I can only surmise by what they've prepared for us to do. But I don't _know_.

 

The dinner is mostly silent. Beetee tells us to do our best and stay alive. Geiger looks terrified. Before he leaves the table, I hug him hard, and kiss his cheek, wish him luck. What else could I do? I feel awkward and sad, and I swing my feet a little, kicking the legs of the chair.

 

Finally, I get up. I need to head back to my room, try to sleep tonight. Beetee and our Escort stand up too. “I should get some sleep,” I mumble. I want to ask someone, anyone to stay with me till I'm sleeping, even though I've never had that before. I just don't want to be alone, but I know that it's time to be alone.

 

Rayan sings cheerfully, “May the odds be ever in your favor, Wiress, dear.” I wince, and Beetee looks pained.

 

He'll be alone tonight, too.

 

I don't know what possesses me to do what I do next.

 

I go over to Beetee and fling my arms around him, hugging him hard. I hear him make a bewildered sort of noise and after a few moments, he hugs me back, a little awkwardly. “I'll do my best,” I say. “I promise.”

 

He sighs. “I know you will. Get some sleep.”

 

I nod and release him, and hurry back to my room. I undress immediately and get into bed, wrapping myself up in those oh-so-soft covers. The bed is so comfortable. So pretty and fresh.

 

Nevertheless, I don't sleep much. I doze.

 

But I don't stir.

 

When Mother comes in, I let myself cry. And then I stop. And then I sleep for real.


	7. Let the Games Begin

The next day, I wake at dawn, alone, and lie in bed for a while. I don't feel much of anything. I know I should be frightened out of my mind but I can't feel it if I am. The only concession to feeling is a tightness in my chest, but if you live in 3, it's a familiar sensation since the air is so bad there.

I shower, taking my time, smoothing my hair with conditioner because who knows when or if I'm ever going to have this again? The hot water feels good, and I savor it. I wish I could stay here forever.

But I can't.

Angelus comes in to fetch me, and gives me a shift to wear. We go up to the roof and onto the hovercraft. The only sound I make is a small whimper as they place the tracker. It hurts. I guess Beetee isn't allowed to come see me. It's all right. I said my good-byes the night before. At least that's what I tell myself. If I win, I'll probably make myself a nuisance to him for the rest of my life.

Angelus helps me get dressed, and he does my hair, in two braids, just the same as when I came here. I get dressed and he helps me adjust the boots properly. I eat breakfast mechanically, steadily. Everything seems crystal clear, hyper-saturated with color, as if my attention is extra-sharp. But yet...nothing is touching me, as if there's a barrier there between myself and what's happening, what's going to happen.

When I'm done eating and we're waiting for them to tell me what to do, Angelus sighs and gives me a hug. I cling a bit because...it's physical contact, and I've had precious little of that in my life. And it's comforting.

"You're going to do well," he said. "I know it. I've done several Games, and I think you'll do very well indeed."

I give him a trembling little smile. "I'll do my best."

He leads me by the hand to the platform that will take me up into the arena. He kisses my forehead and the glass tube came down over me. There's a fleeting moment of claustrophobic panic, but then I begin to go upwards, and there's no more time to be afraid.

The tube lifts, and I'm surrounded by a great wall of _green_ , and the freshest air I've ever breathed. But I've never seen this much plant life, not even in pictures. I can feel hysteria bubbling up in my throat for a moment or two. _I'm never going to do this_ , I think, and close my eyes, trying to get my mind back. When I open them, I see Geiger, several platforms away, looking as frightened as I feel. For some reason, that helps me calm down.

I really do hope that someone else kills him if he has to die. _Just not me_. _Please, not me._

It's so quiet, with just the sounds of the arena, birds and wind and the breathing of twenty-four tributes, all of them nervous and excited or scared.

The gong sounds, and Caesar Flickerman's voice echoes over the arena: "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Fifty-fourth Hunger Games begin!" And then I'm running towards but to the right of the Cornucopia. I can't dive right into the thick of things. I'm fast but I'm not as skilled a fighter as the rest. I have to bide my time till I can fight _my_ way.  I'm pointedly not looking at the Cornucopia, but I'm looking all around myself, trying hard to ignore the sounds of carnage and fighting all around me. 

It's easy for me to sneak around, since I'm small, and I've evaded notice, for the most part. I'm watchful, as always. I creep up to the mouth of the Cornucopia to snatch a backpack very close to me, reach for it, but then there's a cutting sensation across my right arm. I look up to see the girl who's just drawn my blood. She looks startled at herself, and at me for looking at her so directly, and then she drops her knife.

We dive for it at the same time. She's bigger than me but I'm faster. I come up with the knife in my hand and thrust out, almost blindly. There's a sound that I don't want to hear. _Cornered rat_ , I think randomly, but then the girl drops and my hands are covered in her blood.

I grab the backpack and run as fast and as far as my legs and burning lungs can take me.

I stop in some brush, nearly at collapse. My lungs aren't good and panic and physical exertion are not great for me at the best of times. My vision is swimming in red, and my fingers are tingling with pins and needles. But with an effort, I manage to keep my noise down to an absolute minimum, and once my heart stops pounding in my ears, I can hear the surrounding woods. The natural sounds are foreign to my ears. But I can't hear anything human. This is good.

I'm arrested abruptly by the boom of cannon fire. I don't breathe as I count the shots. _Ten._ And one of those is my kill.

With trembling fingers, I open the backpack to see if there are any items I can use to bandage my arm and to take stock of what I have available to me. Inside is another knife, a blanket and a half-full canteen, some twine and a package of dried fruit. It's more than I expected. And I can do with what's here.

But first things first. I cut a strip off of the hem of my shirt with my knife, and use it to bind the wound as closely as I can, pulling it tight with my teeth. I take a sip or two of water, but I'll have to be careful with it. I will need to find water soon. I repack my pack and try to get my bearings. If I'm going to climb a tree, I'd best get to it.

It takes a while for me to climb, mostly because I'm not used to the uneven texture of the bark on my fingers. But once there are branches to haul myself up on, it's easier.

The afternoon sun is brighter than anything I've ever seen, and it dazzles me a little. After my eyes adjust, I see more, lots of trees, and when I look down there are little white flowers _everywhere_. I make a mental note to gather some when I go back to the ground.

Nothing in the arena is without a purpose.

I climb a little higher first, however, to see if I can see more of the arena, perhaps find in what direction to head for water. It's still mostly the tops of trees but I can see some of the lay of the land now. A large hill. A clearing. The Cornucopia. But there's definitely a pattern of the landmarks here.

It's circular and it bothers me. I'm not sure why. "Wheel within a wheel," I murmur, just under my breath. But that's not correct, it's wrong. Why does the pattern seem familiar?

But it's beginning to get dark, and I need to get down and find a place to hole up for the night. I started to edge carefully downwards, watching for enemies down below. It's strange, to think everyone down there is now my enemy. I've never really had them before.

I scan the area carefully before climbing to the ground. When I see no one, I decide that it's safe. I have to remind myself again not to get distracted by the strange noises, to concentrate on human-sounding ones. As I walk, I pick flowers. They're very pretty flowers, and they smell nice. The air is thick with the scent of them.

The air is getting cooler as it edges towards night, and for once I'm grateful for District 3's climate. I'm not certain where would be a safe enough place to sleep for the night, but as long as I don't light a fire, I think I should be all right.

Finally, I spot a thicket, a small patch of tall grasses and young trees, and I crawl within, making sure I'm well hidden by the tall grass. It isn't the most comfortable place I've ever slept but it beats the basement by a long shot.

The Anthem begins to play, and I peer up from my cocoon of grass to see who died. The face of the girl I killed from District 7 appears up there. While I knew that my brain had stored the information about the girl, her name and her hair color and the color of her eyes and the way she looked, I decide that I really do not want to comprehend it at the moment. So I don't, and I make myself forget. It's surprisingly easy to do.

Ten tributes gone. Ten. I could very well have been one of them. But I wasn't.

I notice then, that Geiger is not among the dead. I'm not sure whether to feel glad of it or sorry.

 


	8. Strategy is Everything

I don't sleep _well_. Who would? But I get a few broken hours (between constant disturbing dreams and waking at small noises) and it will have to be enough. By the time morning comes, I'm so full of adrenaline I doubt I'll be able to sleep for a good long time. But I have to move, I have to find water. I head vaguely towards where I saw that rise in the landscape from the tree. Water runs downhill, so it seems like the place to find it.

 

I feel oddly naked, out here in the open, and I keep scanning the trees, looking for enemies. I know from viewing past Games that the Careers usually all hunt in a big pack till the end if they can, picking off weaker tributes. Most of the Careers, in my opinion, are too big to climb trees, especially the ones I can get up. They'd break most of those branches.

 

I've observed them in the training classes. My father has a saying, “Confident, cocky, lazy, dead,” and that about sums up what I think of the Careers. Sure, they're strong, and well-trained, but they don't pay attention to anything. They've been raised with every advantage. They're physically strong, imposing. They're _confident_ and to me, that is their greatest weakness. They've been raised with everything _except_ desperation. The daily fight to survive.

 

But that's something I have plenty of.

 

I'm fascinated by the utter lack of buildings, if I'm quite honest. Of course, I've seen wooded areas on television. But in 3, it's tenements and factories, as far as the eye can see. It's cold too, not like this, warm and sunny. It's never sunny in 3, and it rains or snows most of the time.

 

I could get used to warm and sunny.

 

My thoughts are going in weird directions, even though I'm still aware of every little thing. Seeing every little thing. How odd.

 

I'm not entirely surprised that I'm not encountering anyone else. tributes range far afield to find water, especially those first few days of the Games. The next thing that will happen will be something to draw us together, especially if there's no carnage. They need to get us to fight, after all. Ratings improve when there's bloodshed.

 

But first, water.

 

 

 

The trouble with finding water is that other people tend to want to find it too. Like the Careers.

 

They've set up a massive camp right at the edge of the river that I come to, with the rise in the landscape at their backs. The tents, three of them, are in a little row. Their supplies are well hidden--I certainly can't see them.

 

Judging from the landscape of the arena, I'm thinking that this river is the only source of water in the arena. If so, this is a good strategy for them. If they “control” the only source of water, they have the advantage. _Everything_ will come to them.

 

But the river is also longer than their camp, and so I head downstream away from it, keeping in the shelter of the riverside brush and trees. I'm definitely not ready to take on the Careers. Yet.

 

For now, I study the trees and brush, pick little white flowers. They're everywhere, there's no way that I could ever pick all of them. My pockets are soon full and I stick them in my thick hair, too. But I never really take my eyes off of the trees, never stop being watchful.

 

I'm suddenly startled by cannons.

 

Two shots.

 

Twelve dead now. Twelve alive.

 

I wonder who died. I wonder who killed them.

 

But neither is me, and so I continue walking.

 

Once I'm downstream enough, I look carefully for enemies again as I go to the river's edge, scanning the trees and brush and across the river. I fill my canteen and put the water purification drops into it.

 

And then it's time to climb a tree again to get the lie of the land. After all, I need to figure out where to set my traps. Build my machines. I'm a mechanic. It's what I do. I study the landscape, and stay in the tree for the duration, thinking, and making plans.

 

That night, I look up at the sky during the end of day tally, the anthem. Two tributes dead. Both boys, from Seven and Eleven. I can't help but be glad Geiger's still alive. And sad for him too.

 

 _Please, I don't want to have to kill him._ The thought becomes an obsession. I don't want to kill him. I don't want to see him die. If I don't see it, I can pretend it never happened. I'm good at pretending things haven't happened. After all, I have precious little family...I can't really afford to lose anyone.

 

I consider him killing _me_ , and after thinking about it for a while, I decide that if he can kill me, he deserves to win. I'm oddly at peace with that possibility. 

 

I stay in trees a lot for the next day or so. It's safer for me and lets me observe the Careers' scouting patterns and taking note of how they walk, how they walk as if they own the woods.

 

I can tell I'm flying under the Careers' radar. I got a six in training—unremarkable, to them. I know all of their scores, most of them between seven and ten. I'm skinny and weak in brute strength, though I'm wiry and tenacious. I'm light as a feather and nearly flat, no hips, and you can _still_ see my ribs, despite my diet of the past week. Not to mention homely as the day is long. Not precisely the sort that gets a lot of sponsors.

 

But I'm sure the Careers have plenty of sponsors, sending them things.

 

Well.

 

It's time I cut into their action, isn't it? Despite the whole terror of the situation (and yes, part of me is utterly and completely _terrified_ ), I can feel my mouth curve into a smirk. The challenge is too, too tempting. To beat the Careers at their own Game.

 

This should bother me more, I think...but it's easier if I don't. Think about it, that is. If I really _think_ , my brain sort of stops working. Game pieces on a board. We're just game pieces on a board.

 

I hope Mother isn't watching me. Though I'm sure that whoever is in charge is taking great delight in making her watch. Giving her respite from her duties in order to. I wish I knew why the Capitol made her an Avox. But I can't think about it now. If I win, there will be time to think about it later.

 

I need to prepare for my strategy, make stakes for my traps. And so I gather branches and go to hide and do just that. I spend an hour or two plotting the mechanisms in my head, estimating tension and height. And then it's time to set up. I have to be organized, I have to be quick.

 

I give the camp a wide berth, moving as quietly as I am able, and set up traps in what I deem to be strategic locations, being careful to hide the mechanisms well. My traps are masterpieces of primitive machinery, if I do say so myself. Twine, saplings, wooden spikes, everything camouflaged. Let's just say it's a good thing _I_ know where they are.

 

And then I climb a tree where I can see my traps. I have to see if the machines work, after all. I can't base my whole strategy on them if they don't work.

 

I'm strapped pretty high in a tree by my belt, nearly dozing in the warm midday sun when I hear them. Two boys, fighting, one with a spear, the other with a knife, very near my machine. From my proximity, it's difficult to tell who exactly is fighting but the boy with the knife is much shorter than the boy with the spear. From the way they are moving, either one or the other of them is going to run directly into my trap before long. As I move slightly to see better, I hear the mechanism go off and then a sickening, meaty _thunk_ as three wooden spikes drive home. The larger of the two boys goes down and I recognize what's left of his face as a boy from District Two who looked particularly savage at training.

 

And then a cannon shot, shortly thereafter. _Well,_ I think, _the machines certainly work..._

 

No one is coming to help the District Two boy, of course. The other Careers think he's killed someone, and he'll be coming home with his conquest's pack. There isn't even a rustle from the direction of the Careers' camp.

 

But there is a moan, coming from the ground, from the boy that Two was fighting before my machine went off. I bite my lip as I concentrate my attention on him. The first thing I notice is that the District Two boy had gotten his spear into the other boy's gut before being killed by my trap.

 

The second thing I notice tears a small cry out of my throat. “Oh, _Geiger,_ no...” 

 

 


	9. A Turn of Fortune

Quickly, quietly, I scramble down the tree. I snatch the pack from Two (spikes have driven hard into his eye and temple and neck, it's _bad_ ), and then I go over to Geiger and put my hands to his face. “Geiger,” I whisper. “It's me, Wiress. Come on, up, before the hovercraft gets here...”

 

He's badly wounded, a nasty chest wound. Somehow, he'd dragged the spear from his chest, and was clutching his wound now with two hands. I know I can't help him, but I...I can't leave him either. We're old friends. I can't leave him, especially if he's dying. I wouldn't want to die alone.

 

Though I probably will, now.

 

But he's District 3, and we're all tougher than we look. I sling his arm around my shoulders and half carry him as far as we can get, and then I lay him down, hidden in a patch of brush. His blood is all over my clothes in just the short distance we've walked. He's still breathing but he's paler than normal. I brush his hair back with a shaking hand.

 

“Hey, Geiger,” I murmur.

 

“...hey.” He swallows, and I take out my canteen and give him a sip, because no one should die thirsty. He only takes a little sip but then he's coughing. “Missed you.”

 

I press my lips together so they won't tremble, but they do anyway. “Missed you, too. I...I'm sorry.” Sorry he's dying. Sorry he has to.

 

“Nah...both knew I was a goner.” Geiger's breath is more than labored. Much more. There's a sucking sound when he takes a breath.

 

I want to shake my head 'no' but I find it difficult to lie to a dying friend. He starts to shake, and I catch his hand, hold onto it for dear life. Mine or his? Who can say? “Ssssh, it's okay...it's okay...”

 

He makes a sad little sound and looks up at me. His pupils are dilated. I'm not entirely sure he can see me. “...I want my Mom...”

 

“I know. I'm sorry,” I whisper. I want to cry. But I can't.

 

He begins to shake again, and I gather him close, hold him tight as he flails for me.

 

I kiss his forehead. “Gonna be okay...” But my voice is wavering. I've promised myself I wouldn't cry but the tears are making my eyes ache.

 

His fingers clutch at my jacket tight. My breath hitches tearlessly and I lay my cheek against his and stroke his hair. His trembling begins to lessen, and then stop.

 

And then I hear the cannon shot, and his fingers fall away. Gently, I put him down on the ground, smooth his hair back, and kiss his cheek. My breath is uneven and ragged as I cut off his pack, and I take a few shaking steps back before I turn and run, not wanting to see the hovercraft take Geiger away.

 

Something is dying in me while I run. Something almost tangible. I don't know precisely what it is, but I have a feeling I'll notice that's gone later. My chest is burning and my vision is swimming in red by the time I feel like I've run far enough. I hide in a tiny alcove, surrounded by tall grass and those flowers. As their fragrance comes around me, the tight feeling in my chest eases a little. I want to scream and cry but I just pull my knees to my chest and rest my head on them.

 

Those flowers are a blessing, a blessing I don't deserve. For a few moments, I want to give up. What am I thinking here, with my machines and my knives?

 

And it's only _day four._

 

I'm pathetic.

 

I stay there, right there, as dusk falls and it starts to get cooler, just with my breath hitching those awful dry sobs. All I can think about is the wail his mother must be giving about now, how I'd probably be able to hear it even in the basement. And his brother and two sisters...the littlest one will probably never even remember him. And yet, there's this tiny part of me that is terribly glad that my machine worked.

 

I'm a horrible, horrible person...

 

Just then, something tickles my hand. I look, and it's one of those silver parachutes that they send sponsor gifts down in.

 

Someone is sponsoring _me_? Who?

 

I pick up the parachute to see what's been sent. It's District Three bread, wrapped in a tidy square of fabric tied with a bright yellow ribbon bow.

 

Yellow is the color of mourning in Three.

 

Beetee controls how the sponsor gifts are sent to me. The ribbon must be his idea. I can count on one hand how many times he's sent _anything_ besides food to a tribute. Therefore, aside from sending me food, there's some message here. I take out my canteen and sip water and eat bread, and contemplate the ribbon, rubbing it with my grubby fingers. _I'm going to have to wash soon,_ I think absently, before the contemplation takes over.

 

Yellow is the color of mourning but it also has an element of longing to it, since it's also a sun color—and you hardly ever see the sun in Three. It was said that formerly it was the color of parted loved ones, expressing how much they were missed.

 

The ribbon is silk. A luxury you'd only find in the Capitol. The fine material catches on my roughened fingers a little.

 

Yellow, meaning longing, sun, luxury. And the bread.

 

 _Luxury_ could only mean the Capitol.

 _Mourning_ had to be about Geiger.

 _Longing_ for what? I was having a difficult time with that one. What would people in the Capitol _possibly_ be longing for?

 

And, finally _the bread_. I hadn't precisely been hungry. I didn't have plenty but I wasn't starving. What, then, could the bread represent? A reward? An encouragement? But to do what?

 

I have to think.

 

The Capitol wants me to provide something. Something besides a piece in their Games. Something for which I will be rewarded. But what?

 

I sink deeper into thought and survey the patterns in my mind, memorized from years of watching the Games. What parts of the games do Capitol people respond to? The bloodsport, sure. But what else? What _else_?

 

And suddenly, the answer comes to me in a flash of insight. _A good storyline._ Someone to cheer for, an underdog to root for. Apparently, the scene with Geiger must have been quite popular if it had Beetee sending me bread within just a few hours. Has it been hours? Or only minutes? Time no longer has any meaning to me.

 

In all of this, I've quite forgotten that I'm currently an actress in the most popular daily television show in the Capitol. In all of Panem.

 

How could I be so _stupid_?

 

I don't know where the cameras are, but they always manage to get the shot they want. So I take the ribbon in both hands, crush it to me, kiss it. I realize now that whoever is doing the play-by-play is explaining the significance of the ribbon, of the color, as I tie it loosely about my neck.

 

Then I turn to the packs I took off of District Two and Geiger. District Two wasn't carrying much. A pair of night vision glasses, some dried beef, and a wrist sheathe and knife. I inspect the sheathe carefully and notice that it wasn't _precisely_ a sheathe. There were mechanisms that made it more of a launcher. _Oh, that might come in useful..._ Geiger's pack contains a sleeping bag, a bit of wire and a few items of food, though he'd been coming to the end of his supplies.

 

 _...oh Geiger..._

 

I consolidate all of the things into my pack, and even though it's dark, I put on the night vision glasses and hike. I should move away from here now, find somewhere different.

 

As I go, I pick more flowers. They make me feel better.

 

I stop after a couple of hours and climb one of the larger trees. There are several thick branches making a sort of platform about twenty feet up, and I make my bed there, belting myself to the branches. I wrap myself in Geiger's sleeping bag, hugging it to myself as if he were in it, burying my face in the fabric.

 

If the people of the Capitol want a storyline, I'll _give_ them one.

 

 


	10. Medicinal Herbs

I sleep too long the next day. Everything the previous day has taken its toll and I must be far more exhausted than I thought, because it's mid-morning when I finally wake. I find myself not wanting to do much more than lie here, in the cozy, protected darkness of the tree, but somehow, I manage to get myself together and descend the tree carefully.

 

Today is for washing up. Today is for lying low. Today is for climbing another tree and hopefully figuring out the pattern of this arena, and preparing to set more traps.

 

Two times that day, I hear cannon fire. I'm not sure who's killed who. I'm not sure if it's my traps. The thought that I'm killing people and not even doing them the justice to look them in the eye while I'm doing it might give me pause if I stopped to think about it. But I don't want to. I can't.

 

As it is, I'm tripping over tree roots, and my chest is growing tighter by the minute. I'm having trouble, more trouble than I imagined, putting Geiger's death in a box and not thinking about it. The look of lostness on my face is not an act at all. (The Capitol audience must be loving it.) I can't put his death away like the other tributes' deaths and not think about it. But even though I want to, I can't cry. The tears ache behind my eyes and won't fall. My throat hurts. I'm so tired. So tired. My hand is clutching the yellow ribbon around my neck. The arm where Girl 7 cut me is throbbing and aching. I feel ill and overly warm. But I can't stop thinking about Geiger.

 

He was my oldest and best friend. Knowing he's gone makes me feel completely and utterly alone in the world. Things are so _difficult_. I feel as if I'm walking through heavy sludge. Why am I bothering to keep going? I just don't know.

 

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts that I haven't noticed how difficult it is to actually breathe till I get dizzy. And then suddenly I'm sneezing and unable to take a breath in. When I manage a breath, it ends in a dry, wheezing cough.

 

There are others too, within a twenty foot range of myself. _Oh, how could I be so stupid?_ I can hear them sneezing too, though they're not wheezing like me. But then, it's always been difficult for me to breathe well during times of stress. _Oh, this is bad..._ I look around in a panic to find a place to hide, and I crawl in the shelter of a patch of brush. The branches cut my fingers and my face, but it doesn't matter, I need a place to hide.

 

It's happened before, this thing of not breathing, though the sneezing is new, and must be because of the arena. When I was very small, I'd had an attack, and nearly died. My father had carried me upstairs to Geiger's mother, who couldn't do much but treat me for congestion and rub my back while I gasped for breath until whatever spasm it was had passed.

 

I was weak for days afterward.

 

But I can't afford to be weak now.

 

And right now, there is nothing and no one to help me. And with me making so much noise, I am surely going to be found... Desperately, I grab the first thing to hand, my jacket, to muffle my coughing and sneezing, pressing fabric against my mouth and nose.

 

Almost immediately, there is relief. My whole body, tense with the effort of trying to suppress my hacking, falls into an aching, relieved heap there in the bushes. The fragrance of the white flowers in my jacket pockets fills my nose, and the tightness in my chest faded and vanished. As I lay there, just breathing, I belatedly realize that each time I'd encountered the flowers while out of breath, the fragrance of them or perhaps just their presence, seemed to aid in breathing.

 

Definitely a good thing to know, and for me, essential.

 

There was still sneezing all about me, but I was silent. I suppose not all of the tributes had learned the secret of those flowers yet, had ignored them, thinking them of little use. I was always terribly glad I'd picked them, even more so now.

 

I want to lie here all afternoon. Resting. Looking up at the canopy of trees, looking at the pattern of the sunlight through the leaves. Maybe I'd close my eyes and not wake up. But there's something I want to do. Something that I can't think of at the moment.

 

 _Get up, Wiress. You need to move now. Get into a tree...washing will come later._

 

“Okay, Geiger,” I murmur, and look about for a likely tree to climb. The last thing I want to do was force my aching limbs to climb, but Geiger is right, isn't he? He might not be as smart as me, but he's usually right about things. He's more practical than I am.

 

I find a tall tree, and set to climbing. I move as quickly as I can, but it's slower than usual. Once I'm firmly in the tree, belted to a good strong branch, the voice in my head comes again. _You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours. Eat and drink something before you faint._

 

Again, Geiger is right. The bit of bread I'd eaten last had been far before I'd fallen asleep last night, and I'd slept late. I haven't been thinking, only _feeling_ and that isn't what I need. The sneezing all around me is dying down now. Quietly, I remove some bread and a bit of meat from my backpack and eat slowly, sipping water. I can feel the clouds leaving my brain and becoming more alert.

 

Now I listened for the sound of followers, searchers, and scanned the arena again. People were out. I could see them, the movement of their clothing, the small bits of un-camouflaged backpack, the brushed branches of bushes telling of their passage.

 

I thanked whatever power gave me my eyesight. No one without it could have seen that. Everyone was wary now. Alert, because they'd all revealed their whereabouts with their sneezing.

 

And I knew where to plant my remaining traps now...hopefully my luck would hold...

 

That night, I creep in a wide circumference of the lake and the Careers' camp, setting traps, building my small but deadly machines, a slow spiral of them, echoing the shape of the arena. I'd refined them a little, and made them even less noticeable, made the spikes narrower, sharper, started making smaller ones, more to slow up than kill.

 

Just in case.

 

Eight traps, four snares. Ten tributes left, including me. On the way back to hide, I gather up more flowers, putting them in my pockets and in my hair. I never wanted to be caught out without them.

 

By the time I found another tree to climb, it was almost sun-up. Geiger reminds me to eat again before I fall asleep.

 

I am dozing in the mid-afternoon when the next catastrophe comes. Apparently, I am not being amusing enough.

 

The entire arena begins to shake violently, shaking me out of my dazed half-slumber. I barely have time to become fully awake before the entire tree begins to come apart around me. I gather up my pack and try to scramble down the tree as fast as I can but I still fall about ten feet, landing on my side. I ignore the pain that arcs through me and get to my feet just as things start to fall down all around me

 

What can I do? I run. I can barely stay ahead of the falling trees, but I manage, barely.

 

And _then_ the ground opens up beneath me and I am suddenly falling, too suddenly to manage even a scream.


	11. Quaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really sorry about this...

I grab at things with my hands wildly as I go down, finally managing to stop myself falling by catching a root or a...wire? It certainly feels like wire... Whatever it is, I hold onto it for dear life.

 

After what seems like forever, but is only a few moments, the earthquake stops. Dirt is grinding in my mouth, making my eyes water. I can hear commotion all around me, panicked whispers. My heart is pounding in my chest and my pack is straining on my shoulders, my injured arm burning with effort.

 

I hear a cannon fire. One. Two.

 

Eight left.

 

 _It'll be seven if you don't get out of here,_ Geiger tells me. _Someone is going to use the opportunity to get rid of you if you are found like this._

 

Somewhere, in the quiet of the post-earthquake forest, one of my traps goes off. I can hear the _swoosh-thunk_ of the mechanism and the impact on flesh and bone.

 

Another cannon.

 

Seven.

 

I somehow manage to get my feet to contact the wall I'm clinging to, manage to force my aching, puny arms to pull my weight. I'd just gotten to the top when I start to move _sideways_. I lose my footing and almost my handhold as the ground _shifts_. My chin bangs on the dirt wall, and I almost let go. The wire or root or whatever it is is starting to cut into my hands but I can't let go. I can't let go.

 

Suddenly, the sneezing starts up again. And then the motion stops. I cling there momentarily, but then the walls began to move _inwar_ _d_. I scramble, in a brainless frenzy to get out of there, slithering on the ground to pull myself out of the hole. The ground snaps shut on my pant leg. I have to cut it free. 

 

I freeze, lying there out in the open, barely able to breathe, unsure of where to go.

 

I hear more uncontrollable sneezing around me, and another of my traps goes off, followed shortly thereafter by a cannon shot.

 

Six. God, it's so quick now. _Dammit, Wiress, get out of there!_

 

I scramble along the ground to hide myself in some brush, shaking, and then the sneezing grabs hold of me, too. I barely have the chance to grab the flowers from my pocket and crush them to my nose and mouth before my vision starts swimming in red again.

 

But my sneezing stops immediately afterwards and I lay quiet, my chest aching and my body trembling with exertion. I have to stay awake, I have to, but I can barely keep my eyes open...

 

It's then that I feel the first few drops of rain on my face. I look up at the sky in disbelief as it begins to downpour, a soaking, cold rain. I'm almost thankful for it, as it helps me wake up...but on the other hand, now I just want to cry. But I won't. I won't.

 

I have to find shelter. I'm going to be no good out here, and I'm getting cold. I carefully haul myself to my feet, look around, and realize that I have no idea where I am.

 

Or where my traps are.

 

This is going to be a very long day.

 

Slowly, carefully, I explore the forest, my nerves set on edge because now _everything_ is out for my blood, even my own machines. I somewhat regret camouflaging them so well now.

 

As I walk, I tug on the yellow ribbon around my neck, pick flowers, and listen to Geiger's voice in my head. _Keep going._ _It's okay. You're doing great, Wiress. Just a little longer, a few more days..._ These were the sorts of optimistic things he'd say to me when things got awful, which they so often did in Three. There really isn't a cruel or unkind bone in his body. He is a good person. Unlike me.

 

Geiger is the only thing keeping me going, because I just want to lay down and sleep, because sleep wouldn't be so bad, and then I most likely wouldn't wake up. Right now, it'd be a relief.

 

I've narrowly missed encountering other tributes twice. I have no sense of direction anymore. I need to climb a tree but lots of the trees are down now and I don't know where is safe. It's a good thing I'm so filthy and blend into the background, because I'd have been dead at least three times over by now.

 

Finally, I find a shelter created by accident, with fallen trees and rocks, by the earthquake. It's nightfall by now, and I'm shivering and cold. I've been cold for so long it feels like I'll never get warm again. And though my body is cold, my arm feels as if it's on fire, and my head is about to explode. It's reasonably dry here, but not warm. I wrap myself in Geiger's sleeping bag, huddle into myself, into the shelter, and get ready to wait for morning.

 

I'm huddled in my shelter, still soaking, when I see a silver shape float down in front of the opening to the lean-to. I stare at it for a moment or two. I almost don't want to take it, don't want to note that what is happening to me is part and parcel of the Games and that, for some reason, _the people of the Capitol are pleased with what's happening to me._

 

But, as always with me, curiosity wins out.

 

The tin is rather heavy, and when I open it, it's full of food. _Proper_ , warm food, warm bread, and _strawberries_ , my absolute favorite. I can't remember eating much since the Games started, and suddenly I'm famished.

 

But I'm filthy, my hands are filthy and I can't imagine what my face must look like. And then I see the moistened cloths, four of them. It takes two just to clean my hands, and then one to clean my face. I save another one, just in case I need it. But it feels so good to have the dirt and grime off of my face and hands. And then I tuck in. I eat steadily, looking out of the door of the shelter at the rain and for anyone who might be watching me.

 

I eat most of the food, and really, there isn't a ton of food there, just enough for a meal...but it helps me immensely. I immediately feel better, much better than I had in days. And then I notice something in the bottom of the parcel that I hadn't before. It is just a little scrap of a ribbon, not as big and loopy as the yellow one that had tied off the rolls on my third day of the Games. It was green.

 

The color of hope. Also, my favorite color. It wasn't hard to figure out this message. _Don't give up._

 

“I'm trying,” I murmur aloud. _Beetee believes in you,_ Geiger tells me. _Hang in there._

 

I need to sleep, desperately. My clothes are still damp, but with the lack of sleep last night, and today's ordeal, if I don't get sleep, I'll be dead by nightfall tomorrow. I don't have any way of making a fire, but I am reasonably dry in here, and I have a sleeping bag. I go outside momentarily with my night vision glasses to make some camouflage for the shelter, and then I go back inside of it, pull the shelter closed, and take off my wet things, leaving my underwear. Chances are, they won't dry by morning but at least I can warm up inside of the dry sleeping bag and then I can sleep. I sleep curled up under the bag, a knife within easy reach of my hand.

 

The next day, the sun is out, and I'm grateful. My clothes are still damp, but not soaking anymore. The sun must have been out for quite some time when I wake up. I push myself into a sitting position and immediately notice that my left arm, the injured one, is in excruciating pain. I don't want to look under that bandage.

 

Just then, I hear the most awful, blood-curdling _scream_ I've ever heard... I freeze, my eyes wide. Nothing so far in the arena has terrified me so much as that scream. It was clearly female. The scream tapers off into a series of panicked cries...and then into silence. 

 

And then, there's a cannon. Automatically, my mind counts down the number:  _Five._

 

That wasn't one of my traps, or even one of my snares, I don't think. How on earth did that girl _die?_

 

Just then, my left arm throbs painfully, taking my mind off of the terrifying death I've just listened to. I have to look. I do, and immediately regret it. The wound is swollen and angry-red, and though the outer skin has scabbed over, I know that I need to re-open and clean it...I haven't thought about that wound much since I got it, and now...

 

Well, there's nothing else for it, is there? I wish I had some sort of antiseptic. Some sort of medicine, some sort of heat or something, to sterilize the knife I have to use. But...best get to it. I take some of the twine that I use for my traps and wrap it tight above the wound. The knife is one I haven't used yet. I get out the remaining moistened cloth in order to clean the wound. As an afterthought, I remove my belt, fold it double, and shove it into my mouth, biting down. I hesitate momentarily, a small sound escaping me.

 

 _Do it,_ Geiger's voice tells me. Gentle.  _Do it._

 

I want to shut my eyes, but I can't. I have to watch, have to look. I lay the cool knife against my inflamed skin. My hand is shaking and I have to concentrate on keeping it still.

 

 _Wiress..._

 

I make the cut, quick, re-opening the cut, bringing me pain I've never known before. I bite down hard on the belt, barely stifling my cry. Blood and pus oozes from the wound and I want to vomit, but I don't. Somehow, I don't. Tears escape my eyes and I squeeze my eyes shut to clear them. Despite the pain, I start to scrub out my wound, and that's when I  _do_ vomit, and then, before I can do much else, I completely lose consciousness. 

 

When I wake, there's  _something chewing on my injured arm._

 

And now I know why that other girl was screaming.


	12. Verge

 

I lie there, too stunned to even react for a moment, and view it with detached interest. The rat-like creature looks at me with strangely human eyes, blue, with pupils, its muzzle red with the blood of the wound it's gnawing on. It's one of the largest rodents I've ever seen and I've seen (and eaten) a _lot_ of them. I can't feel what it's doing till I see a small bit of my skin—a bit of _me_ —come off in it's teeth.

 

And then I scream and scramble for my knife. Instead of scurrying away, like any other member of genus _rattus_ , it _clings_ to my flesh with teeth and claws (hands, rat's front paws are like _hands_ ). It's strong, and even when I stab it with my knife, still it clings to me. I stab again, and again, and still...

 

 _Won't it ever die?_ Finally, I have to dig in with my fingers and grab it away from me, twisting its neck till I'm certain it won't move again, and I back up against the one stone wall of my shelter, breathing fast, afraid to look at the wreckage of my already injured arm. I can feel blood trickling down my arm, my entire body warm, too warm, my forehead sweat-damp. My eyes dart to the roof of my shelter.

 

Around me, above me, I can hear the sounds of more rodents. I can see them through the branches of the fallen trees that make up my shelter. I've never been afraid of rats before...but I'm afraid of  _these._ I glance around the shelter and quickly pull small rocks and my weapons towards me. 

 

 _You're not going to be taken down by rats,_ came Geiger's voice in my head,  _not after all this._

 

“No, Geiger,” I murmur, “I promise I won't.” But my mouth is trembling, my eyes wide.

 

And then, the first of them breaks through the branches. They're ugly, horrible black creatures, creatures with human eyes, sharp teeth and claws, and each of them is nearly ten inches long. I don't know how many of them there are. I can't think, I can only _do,_ stabbing them, bashing skulls, twisting necks when I must. I just keep killing them till I can no longer feel the tickle of small feet and the sharp squeaks fall silent. I've got dozens of nasty scratches and my arm hasn't stopped bleeding by the end.

 

But I survive, that's what I _do,_ survive. No matter what the cost, apparently.

 

For a long time, I can't move. I stay there, listening with all of my might for anything stirring outside this shelter. I can feel the blood coming down my arm, pooling upon the hand that I'm leaning on. I feel hot-and-cold all at once, and sick with fading terror.

 

 _Wiress. Move._

 

But I can't. I'm shaking too much. The injuries are not life-threatening, save for that one that the rat was gnawing on, the one that was most certainly infected and generating the fever I was currently trembling from. But the rush of adrenaline was gone. I'm surrounded by the bodies of about twenty rodent mutts, and I can't move.

 

 _Wiress...gather your weapons. You'll need them._

 

Well, that much I can do. I gather them to me, cleaning the blades on my already-filthy clothing. I couldn't care about that anymore. I find myself drifting as I clean my blades and check them for damage. “When I'm Victor,” I murmur, “I'm going to have a big house and I can have everyone over. Daddy and your Mama, and your brothers and sisters, and everyone can come.” I barely know what I'm saying, barely know that I'm speaking. “You can come too, Geiger. And...maybe even my Mama. Maybe?” I've always wanted that. As a Victor I can have what I want, can't I? “And Beetee...” I'm finished packing. I'm still bleeding though. 

 

 _Bandages, Wiress. Medicine. You need both._

 

“I know, Geiger...but where can I find those things...?” I blink down at my shirt and cut off another few inches of it. My midriff is bare now but who cares? And the shirt is filthy, it isn't going to help much. But I wrap it firmly around my mangled upper arm. Frankly, I'm surprised that I can still move it, even if it does hurt like hell.

 

I push open the shelter and see nothing but the forest, quiet and green. It's late afternoon. I don't know what day it is. I realize that I need water desperately, and food...but I have food. It's the water I don't have. It means finding the river again, being careful of my own traps. I feel tired and sick, so sick.

 

I can do it. Of course I can. Because I can do anything. My body might be sick and dying but my brain is sharp. Sharper than my body anyway.

 

But when I get to the river, it's dry. Completely dry.

 

And then, it starts to rain.

 

I look up at the sky, open my mouth to the rain, heedless, reckless. It's safe. I know it before the first drop hits my tongue. Like I know most things before they happen. At least, I do if I'm awake.

 

What are the Gamemakers up to? I sit down as the rain comes down around me. If feels as if there's steam coming up from my body, and I shiver. It's so _quiet,_ but for the rain falling down. I know I need to move. But I'm sick. I'm sick and alone and Geiger's only alive in my head.

 

 _Look up, Wiress._

 

I tilt my head back and raise my eyes and see the silver parachute come down. “Beetee,” I murmur softly, his name a soft, relieved breath coming out of me. I wish I could see him, just for a moment. I sit there, in the rain, with the little parcel on my lap.

 

 _Shelter. You need shelter. Find it._

 

“Momentarily,” I murmur. I'm so tired. I could sleep right here, even with the rain and all. My pack is so heavy. I'm so heavy. But somehow, I pull myself up, bracing my boots against the ground, forcing my knees to move and lift. I look around, wanting to find a shelter from the rain. I seem to be moving in slow motion. My feet are dragging. But my eyes are sharp.

 

It takes a while, and I'm soaking wet by the time I find a suitable shelter...more than suitable, actually. It's a cave, a nice, solid cave, and I can make a fire within it and camouflage the front of it. And so I do, using the one match that I have. I strip off to my undergarments to warm myself.

 

And then I open the parcel. Medicine. Ointment. Bandages. Antiseptic. I've never seen so many medicaments in my life. How much must this have cost to send me? This wasn't a District gift, this was from the Capitol.

 

How many people in District Three could this have helped? But if I _win..._

 

I thought about the parents in my building, how they worked so hard for so little and still didn't have enough to feed their families. I thought about the kids in my building, how skinny they were. How hungry. Of Geiger's mother and her three other little ones.

 

I _need_ to win. For everyone in Three and for whoever was betting on me. Who ever was my Sponsor and kept sending me things. And for Beetee, who had seen so many kids die. And who was alone in the Victor Village. No one should be alone with only the words of dead friends in their ears. Ever.

 

 _Never alone, Wiress. Don't ever be alone._

 

So I sit and make plans, murmuring softly to _(Geiger)_ myself while I treat my wounds and my fever starts to break. I hum to myself, songs I haven't thought about in years and suddenly remember. Rhymes that perhaps my mother taught me, before she'd gone from my life and become an Avox.

 

I peer out of the cave during the anthem that night. No one died today. Once the casualties stop, and with there being so few tributes left, they'd start finding ways to shove us together. To fight. My machines would do little good now.

 

I predicted that the rain would stop soon.

 

Because no one wants to fight in the rain and cold.


	13. All Fall Down

 

The morning dawns, sunny and fair. And this means that it's time for me to get up and out. First, I eat and drink, and re-pack my pack carefully. And then I begin to arm myself. Throwing knife in my belt, another tied to the opposite leg. I'd arm with my wrist-sheath later, but first, I fill the canteen with rainwater I'd collected in the tin that had held my dinner gift.

 

And then, it is time to find a tree to climb. And so I do. My recently-rested muscles scream in protest but it's easier to climb today, even with that. And I look out, over the arena.

 

I have to cram my sleeve in my mouth to stifle the slightly-hysterical giggles that begin in my throat, because now I know what the arena is, finally, when it's too late for it to really help me. It's so obvious, why didn't I see it before? “Ring around the rosy,” I murmur in a little sing-song. “Pocket full a' posies...” Rings, circles, rotating, flowers. Sneezing, coughing. The allergens in the air. The cure of the flowers. Like in the rhyme.

 

I can see where the arena has twisted, and can identify most of the landmarks I used to figure out where to place the traps. This is a relief, for now I can move through the forest easier.

 

But it is very clear that the movement of the arena had made the remaining traps and snares less dependable, and that I could no longer count on the traps to kill the remaining tributes. I was glad that I could throw knives, but I didn't have much confidence in my fighting skills against the larger tributes from the wealthier districts, the ones that were left. The favorites in every Game.

 

Someone, though, must be betting on me, I thought, remembering the food, the medicine. And Beetee's tiny messages of encouragement. At least, I think they are from him. If they're not, then they're from my sponsors. Strange to think that people are rooting for me. Betting on me. The long shot, for sure.

 

Five tributes, including me. I didn't really want to think about killing four people...hopefully, some of them would do it for me...

 

It's time to put the wrist-sheath on, and so I do, making sure the mechanism is in working order, and then I cover everything with a false bandage. Let them think I've hurt my hand irreparably. I climb down from the tree carefully and I begin to walk, watching for enemies in the trees.

 

But even with my watchfulness, I'm narrowly missed by an arrow that lands a bare six inches from my head, embedding in the tree beside me. Surprised, I grab my throwing knife and turn quickly...to see the girl in the tree _and_ the tree fall out of sight, a terrified scream coming out of the girl as she plunged into the sudden opening of the earth beneath her. The ground under my feet began to tremble and I ran for my life.

 

I realize quickly that a huge ring of the arena has just fallen away, taking trees and soil with it. My eyes widen. They're practically destroying the arena...and it isn't difficult to see where this pattern will take us. I can see the concentric circles of the arena in my head and I can visualize the arena as it was after I realized the shape of it in my head. I know where they want us to go.

 

The Cornucopia. They're driving us all to the Cornucopia. They want the end-game. And they want it _soon_.

 

Four tributes.

 

But to get to the end-game, I have to survive the arena. I have to run, and running is not my strong suit. My lungs are tired from the allergens they'd put in the air, and the flowers have largely gone, though I still have some blossoms in my pockets. I've got no time to think about what will happen when I stop running.

 

When the rumbling under my feet finally stops, I'm more scared than I've ever been before, and about twenty feet from the Cornucopia. I don't have my bearings. I don't know where anyone is. And so I scramble as fast as I can, halfway up a tree.

 

Four tributes. Four. I cling to the branches, terrified, taking a handful of wilted flowers out of my pocket and put them against my mouth and nose, breathing in softly. It helps, but it's the last time I can use them, they're so wilted and degraded. I have to be careful now.

 

Looking around, I can see the Cornucopia and I can see who the final tributes are.

 

Boy, District 1. Girl, District 6. Boy, District 4. And then there's me. They're all so big. So strong. And I'm so _tired_. We're all on the outer ring of the Cornucopia. Waiting. Suddenly, the girl from 6 decides that she's had enough and that _someone_ had to fight. The hulking boy from 1 takes her on.

 

I'm so engrossed in watching them fight that I don't notice at first that the District 4 boy has spotted me. Our eyes lock on each other, and he smirks. I probably look utterly lost. _Let him think that._

 

I can't feel anything except for the hammering of my heart. I lose track of the fight between 1 and 6 until I hear the cannon and I look to see 6 on the ground, bleeding, the hovercraft already coming to take her away. The boy from 1, who doesn't see me, smirks and goes after 4.

 

Even now, I know, this is it. I'm going to have to fight the boy from 4. He is over a foot taller than I am. He looks as if he's been sleeping in a bed and eating three meals a day for all this time. He is, if anything, fresher than even the boy from 1.

 

Now, if there is a trap to be set, I must be that trap. My knife launcher is still strapped to my wrist, covered by the bandage. I'm bloodied and tired and weak-looking. My brain is as sharp as anything. It's gotten me this far. It'll have to get me just a little farther.

 

I climb down from the tree and hide in the bushes while they're fighting, and I watch, focusing every attention on the boys and how they fight. The boy from 4 is strong, huge, confident. Even the boy from 1 is intimidated by him. His movements are careful, choreographed, almost. He has a long spear, a short knife. Both are in motion. The boy from 1 is confused and tired and keeps taking swings with his sword that don't make contact. The boy from 4 makes no moves that don't have a purpose, which I can admire.

 

However, he's confident, and as my father says _confident, cocky, lazy, dead._ So I watch. I find what I think is the chink in his armor as he kills the other boy.

 

But now I have to put my theories in practice. And I'll die if I'm wrong.

 

As the hovercraft takes off with the boy from 1 safely inside now, the boy from 4 calls out for me: “Come on, you have to be tired...let's get this over with.”

 

I don't like the sound of his voice. It's cold and frightening. But then, he's just dispatched two others, and maybe we're both tired of this. And so I take my knife in my hand and stand up.

 

So cold. I'm so cold. I just want to go home.

 

I know I'm not impressive or intimidating. Plus, I'm utterly filthy and I must look even more the rat-faced girl than usual. I'm going to play that to my advantage. Bait to the trap. I come out into the clearing by the Cornucopia. I'm trembling, and I stumble. The trembling is real. The stumble is fake. But he doesn't know that.

 

(And even so, there's precious little pretending.)

 

I want to catch him off his guard. Make him react. And so, even though my eyes look glassy and unfocused, I take careful aim and then, quick as a flash, I draw a knife and throw it as hard as I can. It catches him on his arm, lodging deep into his bicep. I catch the surprise on is face the split second before he throws the spear at me, catching me a blow in the shoulder. The spear lodges there, sending me off my feet and on the ground on my back, where I lie, eyes open and panting.

 

His aim is off, however, or it might have been a fatal blow. I'm bleeding a lot but I know he's off center. My arms are flung wide to either side. I lay very still, but visibly breathing, whimpering a little because oh, it hurts, hurts so badly...

 

Even if I wanted to, I can't get up.

 

I force myself to focus. The boy from District 4 (up close, he just looks like a sad little boy, but cocky, oh so cocky) leans over me, sits on my legs, his knife drawn to deliver the fatal blow, and he looks up, as if to cameras, to give a smirk. He wants it to be his trademark.

 

It will be, but not in the way he thinks.

 

Because now, I bring my arm up, fast and hard, flicking my hand back, springing the knife launch, sending the knife savagely into his neck. His eyes open wide in shock and blood sprays out as my hand goes limp, and I cough out blood that's not mine. My hand is attached to him now, the knife lodged in his spinal cord. He falls upon me heavy and I sing faintly, _“We all fall down,”_ as I hear a cannon shot and my eyes drift shut. I hear what comes next as if I'm dreaming:

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Claudius Templesmith announces, “The Victor of the 54th Hunger Games, Wiress Mihos, District 3!”

 

 

 _Author's note: Stay tuned! There's still an Epilogue! Thanks for coming with me this far. I'm so happy with the amount of love that this fic has gotten._

 


	14. Blank

I come to briefly as they're taking me out of the arena, floating on a gossamer thread. I drift off again when I'm in the hovercraft, and then I'm staring up at blank whiteness, a ceiling, ceiling tiles. I'm not hot, or cold, or anything at all. Someone leans over me, mouth moving, but I don't recognize them, and I can't hear them. And then I'm just gone again.

 

When I wake, I'm conscious of a dull pain in my shoulder. I'm also thirsty and I force my eyes to open. I'm in a large, blank room, entirely white, my gown is white, and I'm clean. But I feel so alone, so terribly awfully alone in this big white room, and I don't know where I am and I hurt. There's only one person I can think to call for. “Beetee?” My voice is barely above a whisper, and I'm getting scared.

 

No one comes for a long while. After a time, I gasp with tearless, frightened sobs. My eyes hurt. I don't understand why can't I cry...

 

And then someone comes in. My mother. How is she here? _Why_ is she here? She has a glass of water and a straw and she puts the straw to my lips so that I can drink. I sip slowly and then, very softly: “Mama.” The word is less than a whisper, but I see tears well up in her eyes before she closes them and sighs. And then she just strokes my hair in silence, because silence is all that we will ever have.

 

It calms me and I close my eyes. I have so many, many questions, but she can answer none of them, and it would be too dangerous for her to try. So I decide to forget my questions for now. She pulls the covers over me a little more snugly, and begins to hum, something vague and familiar. I close my eyes and drift. I know something's happened to me. I'm not certain what it is. Only that there's something missing from me that used to be there. There are huge gaps. I'm not entirely sure of anything. I'm not even really certain who I am anymore.

 

But right now...it's just nice to have a mother.

 

She places two gentle fingers against my cheek and turns my head towards her. I must have drifted off because now she has a bowl of something bland and warm. She begins to feed me. I notice then that my arm is held against my body by a sling. I don't really feel my body except for the dull, pervasive pain that has been running through me since I woke.

 

I eat obediently, though I find that I can't eat very much. Mother takes the tray away and then eases the bed back again. Her lips purse as if she wants to say something, but obviously, she can't. She leans over my bed and touches my face, strokes my hair. I want to talk to her so badly! But it isn't fair, she can't talk back. And I can't bring her with me.

 

Her eyes are wet. This might be the last time we ever see each other, for all I know. She knows it too. She looks seriously into my eyes and then kisses me on the forehead. And then she strokes my hair till I'm asleep.

 

My dreams are dark and awful, but when I wake alone, I'm more terrified than when I was sleeping. The room is white, almost featureless. There are no windows. The lighting is dim and soft. It feels like I'm in limbo. But Mother comes again. Her eyes are red and puffy and her skin is blotchy. She sets down the tray and raises the bed so I can sit up. I reach out to touch her arm. “I'm sorry.”

 

She looks over at me in surprise, and shakes her head. She strokes her hand over the side of my face then presses her hand twice to her chest, with a little smile. _I love you, my girl._

 

And then, she settles in to feed me again, tucks me in. As I feel the cool drugs being pumped into my arm, Mother places a soft kiss on my forehead.

 

“I love you, Mama,” I murmur, and I hear a slight intake of breath. And then, I'm asleep again, quite deeply, this time.

 

When she is again there at my waking, I surmise that she is there to take care of me. That she's been assigned to me. And I am grateful for it. She tends to me and I don't have to talk and it's a relief. I eat and sleep and it's all I want to do and all I can do. 

 

And one day I wake alone, my sling is gone, and someone else brings my food. I eat alone, too. I get distracted watching my hands as I eat. They're so clean and the fingernails are all lovely and even. They've cleaned me up so thoroughly. I don't have a scar on me, so far as I can tell. But I can't really feel my body. I've got no concept of it. I feel hungry and get tired, but it's almost as if it's happening to someone else.

 

And the fact that my mother is no longer with me hurts so badly I cannot process it. I feel bewildered and confused, as if I'm lost in a maze, trying to find her, but it's hopeless and I know it's hopeless. If I could cry, I would howl, screaming my throat raw, but I can't cry. And so I remain silent. 

 

“Wiress?”

 

I must have dozed off again, because someone is calling me. Blinking, I open my eyes to see Beetee peering over his glasses at me. Without thinking, I throw my arms around him and hug him. I feel him stiffen in surprise before he hugs me back. He isn't entirely comfortable with the contact but he isn't objecting to it, either.

 

“You need to take a short walk with me, to make sure you'll be all right for your interview,” he says gently. He has an air of bewilderment about him. _He's never mentored a Victor before._

 

I nod. “Okay.” I'll do anything he asks me to do. I feel so lost. I sit up, feeling heavy and stupid. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and hold my hand out to him. “Help me?”

 

His hand is slow as it closes on mine, but I only need it to steady me. I'm stronger than I thought but I still keep hold of his arm. I just want someone close, and I trust him most out of everyone in the world right now.

 

He blinks down at me. “Steady?”

 

I nod at him. “But can I still hold your arm?”

 

“Well...of course.” He seems confused by the whole conversation, but he is being very nice about it. Beetee led me out into the hall, which is white, like everything else. White and blank and cold. I shivered. He pauses and takes off his jacket to put it around my shoulders.

 

“So...tomorrow. They're going to show you clips of the Games and talk to you about them,” he says. “It's perfectly all right to not say much...most of the Victors are a little speechless.”

 

I nod again. “I'm...not really nervous.” Truthfully, I don't feel much of anything, except need for companionship. Human contact. I sigh deeply, my breath seems stuck in my chest. “I just want to go home.” I bow my head and let my hair hang in front of my face.

 

He sighs too, and looks terribly young. _Of course, he's only been a Mentor for seven years..._ “You'll be home soon enough. There's a banquet for the Victors after the recap show and the interview. You'll be meeting with your stylist again.”

 

“Will you be there?” I ask. I can hear the anxiousness in my own voice. “I...I...” I don't know what I'm trying to say.

 

“Oh...of course. Of course I will.” He pats my hand awkwardly, looking down at me in concern. “Don't worry...I won't leave you alone.”

 

“Thank you,” I say, but then I don't say anything else. I'm tired and it turns out to be more difficult than I thought to keep talking _and_ walking at the same time. But I keep walking for as long as I can. He has to help me back to the room and into bed again, and then I hug him hard again. “Stay please,” I murmur. “Just till I'm asleep?”

 

I can tell he doesn't quite know what to do with me. But he nods and pulls up a chair to sit beside my bed while I turn towards him on my side and close my eyes as I begin to drift.

 

And then I open them again, because something's just occurred to me. “Beetee? Where's Geiger?” I'm so used to hearing his voice, it's strange that he's not here with me now.

 

He looks at me. I don't know what that look means. Strange, because I _always_ know. 

 

But if he says anything in response, I'm asleep when he does.

 

 

 


	15. Recap

The next day, I wake alone again, and again, Mother does not come. I want to see her so badly. But I'm alone, with a tray beside me. I can move well, so I pull the tray towards me and eat what I can. Because I'm hungry, aren't I? I should be. I think. So I eat.

 

There are clothes for me on the foot of the bed and so I put them on mechanically. I try the door...for some reason, I suspect that it might be locked, but it isn't. I wander down the hall and peer into a room that I find at the end of it. Beetee is there alone, and he looks up when I come into the room. He smiles slightly. “Hello,” he says, and gestures to the sofa beside him. His smile fades when I come over and sit, and he looks at me seriously. “Can you tell me your name?”

 

Well, what a question to ask... “Wiress Mihos.”

 

He looks extremely relieved when I answer correctly. “Do you know where you are?”

 

“The Capitol. I'm here for the Games.” Really, what is this about?

 

He takes a deep breath. “Have the Games happened yet?”

 

I blink at him. Well, what a silly question!

 

But, for some reason, I'm finding it difficult to answer. I've been in this place for what seems forever, but now that I think about it, it's only been a few days. Even if every time I woke was one full day (which I suspect it wasn't), it's only been a week at most. Which means...

 

“Wiress...?” He looks extremely concerned, his brow furrowing.

 

“Yes,” I whisper, holding on to the sofa I'm sitting on as if to keep myself together. “Yes, they've happened.”

 

I hear him expel his breath. “Wiress. What happened to Geiger?”

 

My eyes travel the room, focusing on the bland flowers in the corner, on the chair, on the ceiling tiles. “The boy from Two killed him.” Oh yes. Oh yes, I remember. My mind wants to run away from truth, because truth is painful. But I do remember.

 

“Yes,” he said softly, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I had to make sure you understood, before you have to watch it on the video screen.”

 

I nod quietly, my lips pressed together, my fingers still clutching the cushions of the sofa. Things are slipping. Slipping away. _I_ am slipping away.

 

But Beetee covers my hand with his, catching me. “Just keep on breathing, Wiress. Just remember that it's over.” He hesitates momentarily. “Just remember you'll be going home soon.”

 

He's not telling me everything. I know it. “You're lying to me,” I murmur. “You mean well...but you're lying.”

 

He sighs and looks down at his hand covering mine, and gives it a little squeeze. “For now,” he says slowly, “I'm telling the truth. Hold to that.”

 

What can I do? I trust him. Even though I know he's not telling me everything...I still trust him. So I nod and lean my head against his arm.

 

A few moments later, Rayan comes in, hugging me and exclaiming at how glad and proud he is of me, and my prep team, chattering about the parties they'll be able to go to. I'm glad they'll be able to have fun. They'll enjoy that. _Someone_ should be enjoying themselves.

 

Angelus comes shortly after that, and he hugs me like I'm made of glass. “Miss Mihos. I had every confidence in you. I am glad to see you well. Now...come along and let's get ready for the broadcast tonight...”

 

I'm glad to see him, but it's kind of an odd feeling, as if I'm meeting a different person than I met before...or he is. He handles me carefully. Am I that frightening?

 

Angelus dresses me in something that makes me look far more with-it than I feel. It's hard to explain but the dress is dark green and _solid_. Heavy. It rustles when I walk. No gossamer gowns for me, no airy headdresses. My hair is back in an almost severe low knot. The jewelry is silver wire and my makeup is soft, eyes and mouth softly enhanced. It's almost me, I think. I'm not entirely sure.

 

I look up at him, nervous in my finery. I'm scared, I don't want to see what they have to show me.

 

“It'll be all right, Wiress,” he says gently. “No one expects you to be overly pleased. Don't feel you have to react any certain way. Just be yourself.”

 

I nod. “Okay.” What he's said makes sense to me. Putting that together with what Beetee told me, I think that perhaps I can get through this broadcast. Maybe. Does it matter? I suppose it does.

 

As I wait to be brought up to the stage, I feel as if I'm headed into the arena again. My heart is pounding and I must be flushed because I feel overly warm in my chest, though my fingers are cold. And then my platform starts to rise.

 

All at once, I instinctively know what I'm to do. It sometimes happens when I'm scared, my instincts take over. As my platform starts to rise, my shoulders relax and fall back, I stand up straight, and lines of worry smooth out of my forehead. I'm carefully blank. Angelus wants me to be elegant, and so I borrow the feeling from the dress, from his attitude.

 

When I get onstage, I look over at Beetee and Angelus first, my face composed. Both of them exude relief as I am greeted by Caesar Flickerman and escorted to a very ornate red velvet-and-gold chair. I sit down, ramrod-straight. I'm not asked to speak, which is good because I do not think I trust my voice. Caesar makes some jokes to warm up the crowd and then it's time to watch.

 

As we go through the highlight reel of the Games, I feel oddly blank, as if it all happened to some other person. I don't know that girl up there. I don't know who she _is_ , with her knives and traps and her rhymes.

 

I'm not entirely sure who _I_ am anymore, either come to think of that.

 

President Snow walks up to crown me. He's about two feet taller than me and he can tell I'm frightened of him. He takes the crown from the cushion that is presented to him. He looks down into my eyes as he places the gold laurel wreath on my head. I can't look away from those snake-like eyes. And he's smiling at me like the rat that's gotten the cheese.

 

I'm taken to a Victory Banquet at President Snow's mansion after the broadcast is over. As promised, Beetee stays with me the whole night, in which I have precious little time to eat. I realize that the party isn't for _me_ , it's for the sponsors, the ones who contributed to my success. I've been bought and paid for. The thought is devastating and something I don't want to think about, but it's true. But I keep my forehead smooth and remain charming, though I'm empty inside as I am introduced around by Rayan. It's difficult for me to be as effervescent as I was before...I hope my sponsors are not disappointed in me, though in many ways, I can't bring myself to care. 

 

Beetee walks me back to my room in the wee hours of the morning. I'm visibly sagging and exhausted now, and my hair is coming down, and I'm slightly tipsy because someone gave me wine, which I've never had before.

 

“Just the interview tomorrow,” Beetee assures me. “And then we can go home.”

 

I nod and sigh. “All right.” I look up at him. “Do you mind if I live next door? I don't...don't like the idea of empty houses on both sides.” He is, after all, the only one in the Victor Village of six houses.

 

He blinks at me. “Well...of course you can. We should be neighbors. You can talk to me, tell me about what you're inventing next.”

 

“You could teach me more about electricity.” It's not my strong point, but it's certainly his.

 

“Yes...I could.” He smiles awkwardly. “But...you should sleep, if you can. Get some rest.”

 

It isn't much, perhaps, but it's a fumbling towards some sort of friendship. A friendship that I suspect he needs as much as I do.

 

I smile back at him, a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.“Okay. Good night.” In my room I take off my clothes and makeup and crawl into bed, exhausted. I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

 

There's no Mother when I wake. I wonder where she is, if she's all right, still alive, if they're hurting her. I'm leaving soon and I'm afraid I'll never see her again. I lie in bed, looking at the ceiling and feel abandoned and empty. I want her to be there, desperately, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I ask for her.

 

The door suddenly opens, and I hear Beetee's voice: “You don't have much time,” he murmurs anxiously. “Hurry.” And then my mother comes in, and the door closes, as Beetee calls out: “Time to get up, Wiress, you need breakfast.”

 

And I know what he's done. He's found her, given me a few moments to say good-bye before I leave. He's probably found a way to disable the bugs in the room, too, if I know him as well as I believe I do.

 

I launch myself out of the bed and into my mother's arms, clinging for dear life. She clings back, kissing my hair and my face, and I think she's crying. I want to cry too, but I can't. I think I've forgotten how. We sit on the bed and she cups my face in her hands, touching me as if she is blind and wants to see me.

 

“Wish you could come home,” I murmur. She shakes her head, pressing her cheek to my hair, cradling my head in her hands. I can hear her breathing, soft and even.

 

But we don't have much time and after a few moments, she pulls back, gazing at me for a last time. She kisses my forehead. We both wish she could speak.

 

So I speak for her. “I know. You love me,” I say softly. “You wish it didn't have to be this way. I know. I love you too.”

 

Mother nods, embraces me for a final time, and hurries from the room. I sit on my bed, trying to take things in, and trying to deal with her absence. I'm not doing a very good job of it.

 

Beetee's voice comes soft from the slightly open door: “You don't have much time, Wiress.”

 

“I'll be right there.” I get up. I know that it doesn't matter what I look like for breakfast, because Angelus and the style team will be making me presentable for my final interview before the trip back to District Three. So I throw on a soft black shirt and soft black pants, jam my feet into some shoes, and throw my hair up in a messy ponytail. I can't be bothered to think about my appearance right now.

 

I come out into the hall, where Beetee is waiting for me and I put my hand in the crook of his arm. “Thank you,” I murmur.

 

He nods. “I'm sorry I couldn't do more.”

 

There's nothing more I can say to that. He didn't have to find her, and I hope he won't get in trouble for it.

 

The rest of the day is spent preparing me for the interview, improving my appearance, and dressing me. This dress, my final dress, is much along the same lines as the last one, though a paler green. My hair is up again and I'm wearing my crown.

 

I miss Geiger's voice in my head. There's a big silence where it should be.

 

“So, Wiress Mihos, the newest Victor from District 3...how are you handling your new-found fame?”

 

It's an idiotic question, really. But they're all pretty much the same for every Victor interview, and really, the way Caesar Flickerman says it makes the question not be so bad to answer. Objectively speaking, he's a very good interviewer, he's very good at reading people. And he can tell that I'm not entirely...there.

 

“Well...” I begin, haltingly, “I...I've only been awake for a day or so...I'm not entirely sure my fame has sunk in yet.” My smile feels slight and wavering.

 

Caesar smiles gently at me. “I'm sure that you're anxious to get home...what do you think your reception will be?”

 

“I hope that they'll...treat me just as usual.” I can hear my voice and it sounds so fragile. “I only want to go back to my...mechanics. Invent new things.” Yes, machines...much easier to deal with than people.

 

“You're the first Victor that 3 has had for quite some time. Do you expect to spend time with Beetee?” 

 

“I do hope so. I'm hoping he will help me get better at electronic engineering, since I'll have so much time to learn new things now.” I'm hoping it might make me feel...more normal. To learn something new.

 

“It sounds like you'll be keeping yourself quite busy.”

 

“I'd rather be busy. It's...” My eyes are tired and my mind is preoccupied and my mind drifts away as my eyes focus on the reflection of light on a strand of Caesar's hair.

 

“Wiress? Miss Wiress?”

 

I blink myself back to the interview, where Caesar Flickerman is looking at me in concern that flickers away as I come back to myself and focus on him. “Oh...I'm sorry.”

 

“Oh, don't worry about that, Wiress...but tell me, when did you think that you had a chance at winning the Hunger Games?”

 

I look at him and tilt my head to the side at him. “When I went in. I knew that...if I just did what I was best at, that I had a good chance of winning.” There were always doubts, of course, and I knew I could die at any time...but I always had a chance.

 

“It looks as if your confidence has paid off,” he says cheerfully.

 

I blank out again, go away somewhere, but only for a moment or two. When I come back from wherever I was, I smile at him, a little blankly. I catch sight of Beetee, just offstage, and he nods at me slightly.

 

I want this all to be _over_ , and I want to go _home_. But somehow, I keep talking and somehow, somehow, I get through the interview, even though the longer I sit there, the more distracted and ill I feel. I manage to keep my poise until I get back to my room in the Training Center, but barely.

 

I run into the bathroom and throw up everything I've eaten that day collapse in my last exquisite dress upon the bathroom floor. My eyes are half-lidded, but I don't think I'm entirely conscious.

 

“Come on, Wiress.” The toilet flushes and Beetee and Rayan are helping pick me up off of the floor. “It's time to get ready to go home.”

 

 


	16. Epilogue

And then, suddenly, I can go home. I'm returning home a Victor, but other than that, I have no idea what else I am. There's nothing to pack. Nothing to take. Just Beetee and me. And just like that, I'm on the train back to District 3.

 

The train seems so _empty._

 

I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, there's so much  _dark_ and I've never been afraid of it before but I am now. So I pace the train cars all night, lean over the railing at the back of the caboose and watch the tracks go by, my hair trailing behind me in the train's wake as the sun comes up. 

 

“Wiress.”

 

I know who it is, and I don't turn around. “I'm just watching...” Watching the tracks whiz past go by is almost soothing, and the air behind the train is almost like District 3.

 

“You'll get hurt...your eyes. You could scratch your corneas.”

 

I blink, and then I straighten up. My hair is a big tangled mess, I can feel it, but I don't really care. “You have a...point.”

 

He pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes. “Come inside. It's cold out here.”

 

“Okay,” I say softly and follow him inside. We sit down at a table and he pours me some coffee. I study the dispersal of the cream into the coffee for a long, long while. It spreads in fractal curves out towards the edges of the cup. When I finally raise the cup to my lips, the liquid has cooled to a reasonable drinking temperature.

 

Beetee is using a datapad to work on something, drinking his coffee absently. It's comforting, even though he's not interacting with me, listening to the _tap tap_ of the stylus on the pad. I sip my coffee and just exist in the moment.

 

And finally, I fall asleep at the table, with the sunshine on my eyelids.

 

 

I'm standing on the train station platform at District 3. My homecoming is ridiculous and elaborate. It's embarrassing. The Capitol people have followed me here to film me greeting my father.

 

They don't get much in the way of heartwarming footage.

 

He greets me as if he'd greet a stranger. We stay a respectful distance apart. I can tell he isn't sure what to make of me. I can tell he's half-afraid of me. Just like everyone else in the crowd.

 

I still invite him to live with me. He's my father, after all.

 

Even if he won't look at me.

 

It doesn't take much to move into the house. We don't really have anything, and it's a small matter to collect the things that we actually do own and move to the house in the Victor Village. I give my father a room with a really nice view of the rest of the District.

 

A month or so of awkward dinners and silence follow.

 

Geiger's mother makes the trek to my house a week or two after I return. When I answer the door, I can't look at her. “I'm sorry,” I murmur, but she shakes her head. She hugs me, hard. “I saw what you did. Thank you for being there,” she said softly. Her voice is thick with tears.

 

It would be a really good time to cry, when the woman who has been my mother in all but blood for most of my life is holding me.

 

But I don't. I wish I would, because if crying hurts, _not_ crying hurts worse.

 

After a few moments, she stands back from me and cups her hand over my cheek. “Come over sometimes. We'll miss you. If we can't have Geiger...at least we'll have _you_.”

 

I still can't look at her, but I nod. “Okay.” She leaves after that, and I return to the house and lose time. It just happens when I don't want to think. I'll sit down somewhere, and before I know it, the light outside has changed.

 

I lose time a lot these days.

 

Between losing time, getting used to this house, and trying to sort things out, the days pass almost without me noticing it. If I thought about it more, I'd panic about losing so much time.

 

But I don't want to think about anything beyond the construction of the tiny robots I'm working on. I suppose the robots will be my talent. They're something to pass the time. Something to take up my thoughts so they don't go to that dark corner of my brain and start poking around.

 

I'm living next door to Beetee, but I'm not ready to see him again yet. So I keep working.

 

And waiting. Waiting for something to happen, I don't know.

 

Maybe I'm just waiting for something to tell me who I am again, because that got lost somewhere in the arena. In the dark, when I fell down.

 

I'll know when the right time is to do something.

 

I always know.

 

Always.

 

 


End file.
